Once A Lord Of Narnia
by LizzieBoleyn
Summary: Prince Caspian was not the only boy orphaned by Miraz's quest for the Narnian throne. The Lord Drinian faced trials and adventures of his own on the way to command of the Dawn Treader. This is possibly his story
1. Prologue

Author's Note: I've had this notion kicking around in my head for years and have finally committed the first bits to print. What was Drinian doing during the reign of Miraz? A Narnian Lord surviving the usurpation while being secretly loyal to the rightful King? Or a refugee from the tyrant? It's clear from VOTDT that Caspian trusts his captain: why? Your feedback may decide whether it's an odd chapter, or a full-length story!

_**PROLOGUE**_

The sound of his pounding footfalls deadened by a carpet of sweet scented moss, he broke cover close to the mellow pinkish bulk of the house, heart hammering more with exhilaration than the exertion of a mile's run through thick woods on a glorious day. Caspian was going to be wild with envy when he heard!

His pace slowed as he crossed the impressive façade of the manor and he had to duck beneath each mullion window, every tiny pane of glass glinting in the midsummer sun. His feet flexing to loosen mud-encrusted leather boots, Drinian, heir to Etinsmere, paused at the main door to remove them, picking his way across the chilly stone flags of the entrance hall with care until he could hop onto the first step of the oak main stair. Guiltily conscious of the time he kept his ears pricked for the agitated quack of Ellena, the housekeeper, demanding to know what had kept him from home beyond tea. _What a shriek she would loose if I told her,_ he exulted inwardly.

A shiver of movement at the edge of his vision stopped him dead, one hand curved around the worn carved balustrade down which he was apt to slide. Someone in the Great State Parlour? The King was not in the North, was he?

"My Lord, you fret for naught." The boy relaxed, for when Mamma spoke in that merry, lilting way, just on the edge of laughter, all must be well with the world. "Miraz is a poltroon; why, even the market women laugh at his puffed-up pretensions!"

"And so they may, Elizabetha, but a King should be more circumspect." The gravity in his father's low voice made the eavesdropper's innards tighten. Papa was sometimes stern; occasionally he was rather frightening. Never before in his brief existence had Drinian heard him _troubled_. "Of course the Prince is a knave and his spouse a termagant, but Caspian's folly is to make public his contempt for them and the party they build against him."

"You mean Glozelle and Sopespian, I suppose." A word of His Majesty's clicked into Drinian's head at the clipped coldness his mother gave the two detested names. _Shrewish_. It had been heard often at the Palace when the poor Queen had suffered her last illness. "Tirian, no person of honour – nay, no person of sense – would associate with those two villains."

"Miraz does, my dear. By his partisanship they have profited, and by his brother's indiscretion others have been drawn to their side. Caspian has great plans for his kingdom, but they must be carried out with tact."

"Our master knows not the meaning of the word!" His mother's chortle fortunately overlaid Drinian's snigger as her slender shadow swayed to merge with the burlier silhouette of her husband stretching across the hall. "But while he may not be sensitive, neither is Caspian a fool. He will manage Miraz. Did he not declare as much himself?"

"Aye, and loudly, as if he did not know the Palace is filled with his brother's spies." His wife's optimism did not appear to be cheering the Lord Tirian. Drinian worried at his bottom lip, not understanding his father's alarm but wholeheartedly sharing it. "I have begged him be cautious; reminded him even the greatest of fools can stumble to success, but no; he can see Miraz as naught but the irritating infant of their nursery, weeping in his wet-nurse's lap for the attention he could earn no other way."

"And his foot-stamping now is but a symptom of the same childish spite." The voice was the soothing one of scraped knees and wrongly added sums, but having passed his eighth birthday fully half a year before Drinian was proud to be beyond infant consolations. He was a Narnian lord, like his sire, and it was his duty to ponder on the affairs of the great. Papa would not fret without reason. And Prince Miraz, his best friend's uncle, was a horrid old prune.

Pleased with his own wit the boy swung lazily off the balustrade, which gave a sharp and ominous creak. "Who's there?"

Several words he was not supposed to comprehend burst through Drinian's mind. "'Tis only I, Papa," he called meekly, smoothing down his wind-tossed hair before stepping into plain view of the parlour door. Both parents, the imposing father towering over the dainty mother, beamed, as much with relief as pride at the sight of their handsome son. "I'm sorry to be so late, Mamma," he continued, adopting his most humble pose. "Was Master Hofian exceedingly cross? And Irina?"

"Your dancing master is paid whether you deign to attend his lesson or no; as for your nurse, you know if she is, she will not remain so." The Lady Elizabetha ruffled her son's raven locks playfully, her panic dissolved as her lord's did not. "Run upstairs, before your sister can finish your scones as well as her own!"

"A moment, lad." Tirian of Etinsmere caught his pointed chin in a callused palm, forcing the boy's wide dark eyes to hold his own piercing stare. "Where have you been?"

"About in the woods, Sir." Innocence seldom persuaded Papa, but Drinian was rash enough to keep trying. The Lord Tirian grunted.

"I shall detain the lad a moment, Elizabetha; assure his nurse he's come to no harm, unless I discover aught more worthy of a whipping than his missing Master Hofian's lesson_ again_," he advised his wife, accompanying the threat with a wink that proved its hollowness. With a gentleness unlooked for in so big a man, he urged his son back into the grandest and chilliest chamber of the house.

"You heard matters discussed of which it were best to remain ignorant, Drinian," he stated, heedlessly fingering the richness of leather on the large chair against which he leaned. "How long were you idling there?"

"Mamma was calling His Highness a fool, Sir." With a tilt of the head did he declare his agreement, the small defiance winning a reluctant twitch of his father's mouth.

"Fools can say much without suffering the punishment of other men."

"Like Master Wullens, Father?"

The Master of Etinsmere chuckled massively. "Aye, like His Majesty's jester; or his brother! You will say naught to any one – least of all His Highness your playmate – of what you have heard."

"Yes, Father." Which did not mean it would be forgotten. "The King's brother—"

The corners of Tirian's full lips turned ominously downward. "You may leave Prince Miraz and his insolence to your elders. Whatever his designs on his brother's realm…"

At the cocking of his firstborn's head and the quizzical raising of one brow the lord of the manor checked himself, glaring at the boy as if his indiscretion was Drinian's. "The business of the Crown is not yours, lad! Which is as well; were you to give graver matters the same attention you do your dancing… it has _not_ passed unremarked that three times you have been _lost in the forest _when Master Hofian has ridden leagues from the Palace to school you."

"But _Sir_…." On this, Drinian reckoned, the ground was steady beneath him, for Papa liked the courtly arts no better than he. Were Mamma not so insistent, additional studies in seamanship would replace the weekly drudge of music, deportment and dance. "I meant to be back in good time, truly I did, but I was distracted."

All thought of royal brothers at odds flew from his head as he remembered precisely _what_ had pushed Mamma's injunction to be home a full hour ago from his mind. "I saw one, Father! A Faun! Oh, and it was just as they are in picture books, with the hairy legs of a goat and the body of a man, bearded and with horns bursting from the top of his head! They still live, Papa, just as Caspian's nurse and Irina say, and I followed its funny little footprints down toward the shore, deep into the _Black Woods_!"

"Enough of this tomfoolery!" The thick sandstone of the manor walls reverberated with the Master's roar, and the shrill stream of excited babble stopped on Drinian's dry lips. "Do you mean to frighten the women from their wits with this raving? Fauns, indeed! Shame on a lad of your years, believing such fairy tales!"

"But Father, I saw it! Clear as day, and not thirty yards away! Why, I'll wager there are dozens – hundreds of them living in the woods, knowing no man dare go near the old castle on the island!"

Too late, as his father's ruddy complexion turned to puce, did he recall his supposed ignorance of that tumbledown structure just beyond reach of a strong swimmer (and well beyond the bounds of his mother's indulgence, were she to hear of him straying so far into the Haunted Forest). Overgrown with apple trees, its walls slowly crumbling, the ruined fortress had intrigued and alarmed Drinian in equal measure since he had chanced upon it three months before. "I mean – why, every fool knows it exists, Sir! Why else would there be an ancient proclamation forbidding any heir of Telmar to venture close to the place?"

"Say one word o' this nonsense to His Highness the Prince at your peril, boy: or would you care to discover a punishment that makes the lash a pleasure?" Every fine hair at the back of his neck prickled. When Tirian, Lord of Etinsmere, Admiral of the Fleet and Chief of Counsel to the King, dropped his deep bass bellow to this low, dangerous rasp, one knew one stood in imminent peril. "And even _hint_ to your mother that you lurk in the depths of _those_ woods, you'll find yourself confined to the nursery for the rest of your days! Am I understood?"

"Yes, Father." Hard to remember that scarce ten minutes before, he had been in such a frenzy of delicious excitement. "And I have said naught to Casp – the Prince's Highness, I mean – of the place."

"I fancy that loose-mouthed old fool of a maid attendant has told her _nursery tales._" The boy's contrition appeared sincere, and Tirian no more than his wife could long be angry with so promising and venturesome an heir. "Now, hurry to make your peace with Milady your nurse, and compose an apology to soothe Master Hofian's displeasure! And be warned – should you fail to remember your next appointment with him, I am under stern instruction that all your studies in seamanship are to cease."

Drinian's head dropped. No son of Etinsmere was going to be seen with dampness filling his eyes! "I am sorry, Father," he mumbled to the formless bulk of the man reflected in the high polish Ellena kept on the Great Chamber's wooden floor. "I shall pay more heed to time in future."

"Promise no more than you can be certain to give and no man will have cause to condemn you." Amused (and not wholly persuaded) Tirian gave an affectionate clout to the shoulder that sent his son staggering toward the door. "And promise me, on your honour as an Etinsmere, that you will say naught of fauns or vexatious princes to your playmates!"

Instinct made him straighten to attention, dark head proudly raised. "On my honour, Sir," Drinian pledged. Tirian's sternness melted.

"The word of an Etinsmere suffices for me," he murmured, giving a small nod by way of more formal dismissal. "Run away now! And send Mistress Ellena to me; I would have arrangements made for your Mamma's likely absence in days to come. What, lad? Do you forget, your grandmother Greenglade lies dangerously sick? Fauns in the woods, indeed! For shame, that Etinsmere's son should babble such nonsense!"

Drinian fled as he was bidden, only the thought of his crippled grandmother's failing health keeping the jubilant grin from his face. They _did_ exist; and if there were Fauns in Narnia still, then there would be Dwarves too, and beasts that spoke like men.

"Pah!" he gurgled, halted before the Nursery door to compose himself before facing his infant sister. "And they would speak more sense than Caspian's addle-pate Uncle Miraz, too! Katharina Etinsmere! Have you finished all the scones? You'll end with a belly like the Hobbled Hermit of Hamdon Hill, and then what will Mother say?"


	2. Chapter 1

Author's Note: After a long delay, back with the first main chapter. This is proving to be tough, but I'm going to struggle on, though updates may not be as regular as I'd like.

**_ONE_**

Crooning to his trembling prize, Drinian pressed back into a curtained alcove in the Privy Apartments of the Royal Palace, stealthy as a practised cat-burglar. From the turn in the passageway ahead of him, a hand waved. _All clear!_

His grasp of the frightened mouse as gentle as their situation would allow, he scampered to join his associate in inching along, making a fine series of tapestries depicting the triumphs of the Conqueror shiver. They passed several large gilded doors with barely a glance, pausing only when they reached the one nearest their goal to listen, ears straining, for the sound of their quarry's wheezy breathing.

Footsteps on the other side of the wall caused them to freeze. The agitated quacking of their impatient nemesis, abusing her maid's tardiness with the hot water, awoke their petrified limbs and sent them haring on, almost running into the final door of the apartments in their haste. Hesitant, as if he believed she might appear in two places at once the smaller boy, fair as his companion was dark, peered into the large, silent room.

"Clear!" he hissed as he entered, the word sliding back through the narrow gap he left behind. "I'll stand watch."

"And be sure you do this time," Drinian muttered scurrying through a fine mist of heavily sprayed musk scent to drop onto his knees before a low shelf stacked with jewelled boxes. "Which one?"

"The rose satin; I heard her shouting about them to her maid." Caspian, son of Caspian, six-year-old heir to Narnia, rolled his big blue eyes. "Aunt _must_ bellow, even when she means to tell one a secret," he added tiredly.

As he knelt before the huge array of shoe boxes, nose wrinkled against the fragranced paper he knew would be wrapped around the objects inside, Drinian saw his father's troubled face swim before his eyes. That may be as well for us all, he thought, releasing the mouse to burrow deep between Princess Prunaprismia's chosen footwear of the day.

"Hurry, Drinian, even Aunt's _primping_ cannot last much longer!" The younger boy was hopping agitatedly, casting a glance now to his friend, then to the deserted corridor of Prince Miraz's Apartments. Leaving the lid ajar the elder sprang up, dashing back toward his friend. "_Run_!"

The petulance of the Lady Prunaprismia could be clearly made out from the adjoining dressing chamber, rebuking her harassed servant in terms the Lord Tirian swore were fit only for mariners. Giggling, the two boys stumbled into a convenient housemaids' cupboard at the end of the apartments, huddling back against a stack of rough-handled brooms. "How long, do you imagine?" muttered Caspian, too old at six to confide a terror of the dark, yet too young to keep the tremor from his question. Drinian gave him a good-natured shove.

"Half of no time! We _could_ hide in the woods, if you wish?"

A foolish suggestion, he reflected as Caspian squeaked, the sound muffled against a quickly-raised palm. However he loved the tales of _Old Narnia_ his nurse told so well, Prince Caspian was as frightened of the spirits that were said to lurk in the woodland as any washerwoman's daughter. Were _he_ to see a real Faun, he would most likely faint!

Still, as no hue and cry was raised beyond their hiding place, and the dust stirred by every tiny movement began to tickle his nose, Drinian silently conceded his own dislike of close confinement, whether he could see half a yard ahead or no. Aware of Caspian fidgeting nervously, he stretched out a reassuring arm to the younger boy. "How long does it take her to dress?"

"Longer than one would imagine, seeing the result."

The laconic response was sufficiently unexpected to provoke a strangled hoot. "Did His Majesty say that?"

The air was stirred anew by Caspian's vigorous nodding. And then it happened.

The tranquillity of the royal apartments was shattered by an ear-splitting shriek. "Miraz!"

Footsteps pounded through the thickest of Beaversdam carpets. Voices echoed from one end of the vast building to the other; princes, noblemen, chamberlains and maidservants came scurrying, and all the while a barely comprehensible stream of feminine fright and outrage issued forth from the Lady Prunaprismia's Robing Rooms.

"A mouse! Husband, a _mouse_ in my shoe! Ariane, don't _touch_ it, stupid child, your fingers must lace my petticoats tomorrow! Husband – Sire – my Lord Tirian – a mouse! Ugh, take it away, hateful, horrid little thing, where is it gone? I cannot bear it! Oh!"

"Your Grace will doubtless find the animal far more afraid of you than you can be of it." Drinian bit down hard on his bottom lip. Papa was on the verge of laughing! "Let it run, Your Majesty, this bellowing will frighten the poor creature half way to the Pire Pass!"

"In my shoe – how in the name of the Conqueror did the vile creature get into my best rose satin slippers without assistance? Your Highness must find those - those _boys_ and whip them!"

"Sister." Caspian IX, Drinian noted, was not laughing. He could imagine the round, ruddy face creasing into a scowl Mamma claimed would frighten the horses, the narrow lips pulled so tight they became invisible. "Do you accuse Our son of misconduct?"

"Say more likely _our sons,_ Sire." The Lord Tirian sounded bored; a signal his heir knew only too well of rising irritation. "Mice do not, by chance, inhabit large buildings of their own will? Their presence must surely be the work of human hands."

"Oh, indeed." The floorboards close to their hiding place creaked ominously. Drinian felt disturbance in the air again as Caspian's hand flew up to stifle a squeal. "You! Maid! Has His Highness, or my young Lord of Etinsmere, been about the corridors? Speak, girl, unlike some of our blood _We _do not beat our servants for answering Us boldly."

"Only our sons," Caspian mouthed, standing on his toes to pass the words into the taller boy's ear.

"Been all this morning with my mistress, Your Majesty. I b'aint seen nobody. Ow!"

"Common wretch, speak as I taught before your betters!" The Prince's wife proved her nephew's earlier truth with a violent stage whisper.

"Brother." All condescension now, the elder Caspian's contempt tasted bitter on the tongues of his hearers. "You will remind your wife, of course, of the duty we of _rank _bear to show courtesy to our inferiors? You may go…?"

"Ariane, Your Majesty. Thank 'ee, Sire."

Before the squeak of the girl's cork-soled shoes could fade away another voice, thin and querulous, had risen to join the affray. "And will you leave the wretches unpunished, Caspian? Prunaprismia is of a delicate disposition, easily distressed by trifles…"

"Aye, so we see," grunted the King.

"Delicate as a blasted hurricane," the Lord Tirian muttered, unfortunately close to the broom cupboard. Drinian stuffed both fists to his mouth and bit down hard.

"What proofs, Prince Miraz, save the shrill accusation of a hysterical female have you of Our heir's involvement in this – mischance?" If there was emphasis attached to a pair of soft-spoken words, the boys in the darkness failed to detect it. "You there, usher! What's your name?"

"Cofian, Your Majesty."

Against his arm, Drinian felt his companion sag. Certain of the servants might fear the wrath of Prince Miraz or his wife, but Cofian had taken cuffs enough from both to support any childish plot against them.

"His Royal Highness and the Lord Drinian – have you knowledge of them?"

"Saw them not half an hour ago on the front lawn, Your Majesty," answered the other with perfect truth. "Practising swordsmanship with a pair of rotten boughs with my Lady Katharina trippin' about giving advice, they were."

"Well, then, Brother, what say you?" Escape was impossible with the King's bulk cutting the last slivers of light from beneath the door. "Are those boys magicians that can appear in two places at one time?"

"We are not a half-hour's walk from the lawns," muttered Miraz.

Drinian could imagine his pose: head down, bottom lip jutting out, hands hanging by his sides, looking more like a drowned puppy than a Prince of the House of Telmar. And when he deflated, the lady went down like a popped balloon too. He felt himself starting to grin at the mental image.

"Yet none has seen those two scapegraces enter the palace. My Lord Tirian, you will investigate – for my brother's comfort – the appearance of so terrifying a creature in Our sister's chambers. Should our sons prove to be concerned in the affair, We shall hear their apologies Ourself. Master Cofian, are you proficient in the art of hunting mice?"

"Never having tried, Sire…. I'll fetch the kitchen cat."

The Lady Prunaprismia could be heard to groan. "Vicious, flea-infested beast!"

"Miraz, escort Her Highness to a safe distance from all creatures with more than two legs. Very good, Cofian, be about your business; and you, my Lord Tirian, set to yours. Glad shall I be to hear that our troublesome sons have been breaking timber all morning!"

Drinian sucked in a deep breath and held it, straining sharp ears for the last footfall. Caspian plucked at his sleeve just as the burning in his lungs grew too much. "Have they gone?"

"Aye." No trumpet shrilled the alarm as he shoved the door outward, hand curled around the knob to pull it back should the need arise. "Hurry, Caspian, down the back stair and through the kitchens; Katharina can only pretend to be hunting us through the orchard for so long!"

"Your father…"

"Won't search too hard for us, did you hear him try not to laugh at the squawking crow?" The epithet was unfitting for a princess (by marriage, so Mamma always pointed out with the proper disdain of a lady born) but he could think of none cleverer while scurrying from the shadow of the birch rod hovering over his buttocks. The King might be amused, but were they to be caught punishment must follow. Madam Prune and Prince Mope would see to that.

Down the finely decorated passageways, around sweeping corners and down a narrow stairway into the cool, bare domain of the servants, where discreet shadows dipped and ducked at the sight of a royal prince. Caspian panted, short legs struggling to match the pace of his longer-limbed companion. "Cofian!" he gasped as a familiar lanky figure blasted around a tight bend in the corridor toward them, wrestling a spitting bundle of bright orange fur. In a fluid movement the footman turned, veering off down another hall leading in quite the opposite direction to that he had intended. Caspian stopped dead, hands on hips, a monumental pout forming on his cherubic face.

"I thought footmen were supposed to stop and bow when they see the King's son," he yelped. Thrusting out an arm to yank him into motion, Drinian speared him with a withering look.

"He was trying _not_ to see you, simpleton, do you forget the hordes of Tash are on our heels?" Had _he_ been such an addle-pate at six? Katharina would have understood the cause of Cofian's seeming rudeness, and she was barely five!

"Oh!" Caspian sniggered at his own stupidity, stumbling over the low step down into the bakery, where a dozen fellows prostrated themselves with hidden grins at their Prince's undignified appearance. He managed a smile, remembering his father's strictures on courtesy to one's subjects, before tumbling out into the dappled sunlight of the vegetable garden that ran the length of the palace's hidden west wall.

"Drinian! 'Tis not fair, let _me_ try, girls are just as strong as – ouf!"

Both boys laughed out loud. "Your sister puts on a fair show," Caspian guffawed, setting off with renewed energy toward the trees from which the sweet, high voice was trilling. Sitting on a low apple bough, chubby legs and green satin skirts swinging, Katharina Etinsmere waved cheerfully. "Papa looked out five minutes ago," she reported, no longer troubling as she once would to run and greet him. "I screeched a little, called you a very devil, and he went indoors directly."

"I'll take a thrashing for that, I dare say, if I can contrive no explanation."

"Why should Papa want an explath – explo – exp…" she gave up on the long word, shifting along her rustic seat to grant him room beside her as Caspian flopped into the long grass about the tree's base. "Do we not call each other such names daily?"

"Aye." Absent-mindedly he gave her a brisk hug that brought a glow of pinkish pleasure to her plump cheek. "Papa shan't search too hard for us, Caspian. I'll wager he wishes _he_ could hide a mouse in the shrill crone's shoe, and the King, as well!"

"I hope I may stay a Prince, then, and be free to do as I wish with silly, shrieking aunts." Diligently stripping a twig of its bark, Caspian grinned up at his friends. "Princes have _much_ more fun than kings do! Will we be called for luncheon soon, do you think? I'm ravenous!"


	3. Chapter 2

Author's note: I've rediscovered this in recent weeks and been inspired to start working on it again. Be warned: there are some nasty things going to be happening to Our Hero in this fic: they start here. There's no direct depiction of violence - but its aftermath is (I hope!) a bit grim.

_**TWO**_

Hazy autumnal sunshine caught specks of floating dust before the bare attic schoolroom's window. Engrossed in scratching a schooner's hull into a page with the dry end of his quill, Drinian did not hear the quack of approaching voices, shooting to attention only at the ominous screech of the iron-studded door.

Fortunately for him his elderly tutor had been equally inattentive, dozing behind his desk until the sound brought him upright with creaking knees and the clattering of an overturned chair. The Lord Tinian spared him a brief smile that widened at the impressive courtly reverence offered by his heir.

"Sir; Mother; Katharina." Discreetly brushing paper dust from his book, Drinian composed his features into a suitably blank expression. At a nod from his employer, Schoolmaster Mallian scuttled like a startled crab into the corridor, closing the door with its familiar wail behind him.

"Your mother rides for Greenglade directly." Tirian, so said His Majesty, addressed even his dearest as he would a recalcitrant mariner aboard his fledgling fleet. "What's this you have? _The Lives of the Renowned Rulers,_ eh? And whom do you study today?"

"King Erimon the First, Sir." Beyond the name he remembered nothing of the famous king's existence. "Has grandmamma sickened again, Mamma?"

As he hoped, the mournful sympathy of his look diverted both parents from inconvenient musings on his education. "Your uncle summons me with all speed," Elizabetha affirmed, the birdlike black eyes she had bequeathed both her dark, long-limbed Etinsmeres brimming. "Which means I must be away at once if I'm to be beyond the Black Woods by nightfall."

"Who will read my bedtime story?" Katharina pulled her mother's soft plum velvet sleeve. Tirian swept her up to perch high on his shoulders, her glossy ringlets swinging into his face.

"Papa can read tolerably well for an evening or two," he boomed. "And what of the young master here? Does _he_ require a story?"

"Thank you, Sir, but I'm grown beyond such silliness." As his sister lashed from her high perch, pudgy fingers grazing his unruly crown, their father's laughter rebounded from the low roof beams until the very walls seemed to thrum with the sound. Casting his eyes down, Drinian snatched at a sentence in the Life of Erimon that, uniquely among the facts listed in a dry tome, had intrigued him. "Sir – why do we name our coins as Lions and Trees, not the Pestas and Shillons of Telmar as they did in King Erimon's time? I was about to ask it of Master Mallian. The Lord Sopespian says our coins named for a barbaric folly."

He observed a storm gathering in the creases about his father's eyes; just as swiftly it dissipated, though the effort it cost was apparent in the twitch of a muscle at his temple. "The Lord Sopespian speaks less sense than the Hobbled Hermit of the Southern Hills. Those are Telmarine coins, and we of Narnia long ceased to consider ourselves to be sons of Telmar – or those of us with our wits did!"

"Tirian, enough!" his wife protested automatically.

"The lad deserves answer, Elizabetha; as bosom ally to the Prince he'll play his part in the governance of the realm one day." Papa was sombre, and that unnerved him more than Drinian cared to admit. "Our coins take their name from Narnian myth and fable, and it ill behoves any race to trample the myths of their motherland. Did His Highness repeat the old wom – Sopespian's words?"

"He heard that the Lady Prunaprismia told them to Lord Miraz, Sir."

Elizabetha tutted. "Did I not tell His Majesty that female he calls the Prince's _nurse_ ought to learn _discretion_? Fills the child's head with nonsense and permits that he eavesdrops on his elders!"

"There's no need to eavesdrop: that harridan can be heard from the farther side of the kingdom." Brother and sister shared a gleeful smirk, cut short by their father's frown. "Enough of these trifles! My lady's escort awaits, we must see her safe away. A fair gallop will see you safe to your brother's house before moonrise."

* * *

For two days life continued tranquilly. Drinian attended his lessons with all the diligence he could muster, suffered the visit of dancing master Hofian with no more than a roll of the eyes, and divided his leisure time between teasing his unfortunate sister and daydreaming of the ships Papa declared would one day make Narnia queen of the sea. Grandmother Greenglade was not so dangerously sick as had been believed; Mamma would be home on the morning of the third day with her escort of household men. And soon the family would ride south and inland again, to visit Caspian at the Palace.

* * *

The manor was silent, all the servants in their beds. The large nursery lay in darkness, rocking horse and miniature galleon casting frightful shapes across the floor to shift in the dappling light of a pallid half-moon. Curled beneath heavy woollens on a low pallet in his small room to the east, Drinian shifted in his sleep, the bass whisper of a voice in the opposing bedchamber barely tickling his ear.

In the window of that little room a lantern glowed, its feeble light useful only where it struck polished window glass. Beyond in the encircling woods, had anyone been about to hear it, a strange sound broke the midnight spell: the fretful whinny of a nervous horse.

Sliding from her shelter of cloud, the moon brushed beams across something hard and shiny, lancing icy shafts through the gloom. Drinian rolled onto his side, nose wrinkled against an imagined stench. Beneath his window gravel crunched, but he heard nothing beyond the whistle of the sea storm in his dream.

Then came the crack and crunch of breaking timber.

_The mainmast! _He shot bolt upright with the covers clutched to his throat, fog dissipating from his head as his landlocked surroundings came into focus. Rough voices echoed in the hall; the outraged bellow of Papa and then another, shrilling with defiance; then a third, deep and toneless, with a note that made Drinian's blood run cold, all of them sliced through with Katharina's frightened mew. Metallic footsteps clanged on the old wooden stair and he buried himself under the covers, trembling less with cold than fear as the clamour grew and the voices and the thudding melded into a great chaotic ringing that threatened to burst through his skull.

Someone groaned; someone staggered, a stout bulk making the walls shudder as it slumped. Katharina's scream tore through Drinian's brain, snapping the invisible cords that held his limbs and sending him tripping, nightgown coiling like a malevolent serpent around his ankles, across the floor. "_Treason!_"

He snatched up a miniature wooden cudgel that lay just inside the nursery door and staggered across the spacious playroom, panic deadening his wits. Katharina's shrieks rose another octave; the low rumble of a stranger's voice bade her stop her tongue.

And as his hand curled around the doorknob, the shiny brass sending a chill through his damp palm, her crying ceased.

"No, my lord!" His turn to yell – or try to as he was spun from his mission into the muffling softness of a familiar embrace. Irina, the plump dame who had cared for Etinsmere's heir since the cradle, rocked her chick as if he belonged there still, soaking his disordered hair with tears and efficiently preventing all his feeble attempts at escape. "There's naught you can do, m'lord, save protect yourself!"

He stilled, sensing that to struggle was useless, until the clang of metal soles had ceased to ring and the manor was plunged back into awful silence. Only when shock struck and loosed her muscle and bowel to water could he slip free, swift as an eel out of her hold and through the connecting door to Katharina's chamber.

His legs gave way. A ghastly gurgling sound ripped from his throat and he sank to the floor, the room blurring around him. Blood. He was surrounded by blood.

She lay sprawled across her dainty white-curtained bed, her head slewed weirdly, eyes open and fixed on the ceiling. Across her waxen throat a dark ribbon ebbed and oozed. Barely aware of what he did, Drinian stretched to grasp one tiny foot, his hand jerking back, burned by the icy contact. Dead. _Katharina. Dead_.

His chest was hollow. He could neither breathe or move, only kneel at the foot of her bed and stare. If tears fell, he did not feel them; if Irina, or Ellena, or any of the household women gathered sobbing at his back, he had no knowledge of it. "Katharina!"

Her name was no more than a whisper, yet it roused their nurse from her stupor. Gentle hands raised him, a shaky voice crooned meaningless words into his ear. From a great distance he heard another voice, raw and harsh: Ellena, mustering the household in her mistress's stead. "Ariana, fetch the master a cup o' something strong, and you, Sulia, pack all you can afore the mistress comes home. M'lord, you're Master of Etinsmere now, you must do what his Lordship would've wished."

Master? Numb as he was the word wormed into his mind, ticklish and unwelcome. On an animal wail he flung himself at the unmoving bulk that blocked entry to the main stairway. "Papa! No, Papa!"

Though frantic hands plucked and voices shrilled around him, they could not pry him from Tirian's lifeless body. He pummelled the yielding flesh, careless of the sticky gore that coated his nightshirt and hands. Sobs tore through his lean frame, emerging in rough, ragged grunts. The world had closed in until only he and the corpse beneath his hands remained, engulfed in a deep black chasm of despair.

At length his strength began to fail and the women could prise him loose to lay, panting, against Irina's shoulder. Gentle fingers pried his mouth open, a cool glass touched his bottom lip and he retched, shuddering from the pit of his empty stomach as raw, pungent spirit seared his throat. A spasm tore his gut, bringing half the liquid back as it had gone. "I – apologise," he tried to sputter, the word ending on a high giggle as the absurdity of his courtly training struck home. "They've killed my father – Kathi…"

"Hush, my lord, we'll get you dressed – Janina, fetch biscuit, and fruit and all the wine and water you can carry; take it down to the mooring as my lord instructed." Ellena left the shaking child to his nurse, her strident practicality keen as a swordsman's blade through the cloudy haze around him. Drinian roused himself and, though he staggered, stood tall as his years would allow. _I'm Master of Etinsmere,_ he told himself groggily. And the Master of Etinsmere did not wail in the corner while his servants – his _women_ servants – decided what was to be done.

Bold thoughts could not translate into decisive speech, however: when he opened him mouth, the broken squeak of a terrified child came out. "Ellena, wha'…"

"The master gave orders Master Dri – my Lord." The façade of assurance cracked, and instantly he reached out to snatch her trembling hand. "My lady'll be home in the morning, and you'd best be ready. If only he'd not commanded her take such an escort to Greenglade! Run along, dress and be ready, your poor mother shan't be needing more than a wash and a bite o' bread. Hurry, 'tis what the master would wish!"


	4. Chapter 3

Author's Note: A quicker update this time. Thank you to the people who have taken time to review so far, it really does inspire me to keep at what's turning into quite a lengthy project!

**_THREE_**

The sky had cleared to a fine aquamarine hue by the time they crept, heads hidden under coarse sacking hoods, down through the woods toward a narrow inlet shielded by tangling shrubs. "M'lady, we should come with you," Horse-Master Peridan grated, the first words Drinian had heard spoken since Mamma's shriek on seeing her family's broken remains. "Sailin' along these haunted shores, a lady and a boy… you need protection, Ma'am, aye, and a hand at the oars as well!"

"Dear Peridan." Elizabetha summoned a wan smile, and only Drinian, clutching at her ramrod arm, guessed what it cost her. "You never handled an oar in your life! You must protect our women and the house; keep all safe until my Lord Drinian and I can return. Here, Jostain! Dig out the anchor and push her off – is that the term? Climb in, child; I shall depend on you to set sail and steerage."

"The luck o' the Conqueror go with you, Ma'am." Thorian, chief of her husband's household men, could barely force out the words. Whey-faced, Elizabetha stretched from the boat as it bobbed on the quiet waters of one of the River Etin's countless narrow tributaries to kiss his big gnarled hand.

"And with you, old friend. My brother will protect us, and when His Majesty learns of this outrage his justice will strike at the perpetrators: he was my lord's good friend, he will not fail us. Hold our fellows in readiness; my Lord Drinian will return as their master in good time."

He felt their eyes on him and shrank from their unspoken dismay. A child, master of mighty Etinsmere! What substitute for the great warriors who had led them in past days?

"M'lord had the best o' tutors," Peridan stated loyally, bringing the ghost of a smile to every face. "But Ma'am, we _should _accompany you to Greenglade."

"An armed troop clattering through the woods might bring the whole army of Narnia down on us!" Though her words were stern, the tone belied them. It occurred to Drinian that Mamma might secretly long for just such protection. "Now, we dare not delay if we're to reach Greenglade before tomorrow dawn. Drinian, can you set sail and take the tiller?"

For the first time in hours he was useful. As she leaned all her slight weight into the oars he attacked the small canvas square of sail with the fury of contained frustration, coaxing the little vessel out into midstream and away from their solemn party of watchers toward the sea. At the moment the sluggish drift of the creek dissolved into the lush roll of open water, it seemed his lungs filled anew and his heart beat stronger. He was, after all, still alive.

Papa had taught him to handle the boat _Lady Elizabetha_ as soon as he could toddle unaided but he had never commanded the craft at spring tide, and caution kept him within sight of the shore as she skittered southward on a lively breeze that spared her namesake from prolonged struggle at the oars. With the burst of activity done he collapsed, breathing hard, onto the helmsman's bench, oblivious for once to the fiery gold and russet splendour of the autumn woods sliding by.

His eyes burned and his mouth tasted gritty. Only Mamma's insistence compelled him to nibble the corner of a dry biscuit that lay in his belly with the weight of a lead ball. Yet he would never recall feeling panic as the hours merged together, not even at the moment when his mother shuddered and turned her frightened face quickly from his. "Steer out, dearest; we must not stray close to _that_ place."

Dumb instinct made him obey before realisation struck, the little vessel veering wide of the island where, glowering from an impossible height, a building's ruins cut jagged scars into the sky "Is that where the demons hide?" he heard himself ask. The Lady Elizabetha pressed a chilly finger to his lips.

"Don't speak of them, Drinian! Your poor grandfather could never bear to think of us surrounded by the ghosts of these woods!"

"If there are ghosts, what harm have they ever done our House?" It was Papa's argument, one Drinian had heard him expound many times before the court. "They were no ghosts that – that…"

"Hush, I know." Though their craft rocked violently under her tentative movement, Elizabetha shuffled to wrap an arm around his heaving shoulders. "His Majesty will have the heads of whichever vagabonds have taken Papa and my brother Greenglade will give us shelter until justice is served."

"Don't want justice." It was childish, and he was Master now, above such foolery. But his head ached viciously from the night's clamour and the glare of the sun, and he felt too small and useless to stem the tears that scalded his swollen eyes. "I want Papa and Kathi, and even the King can't bring them back!"

"No." Her voice cracked, and he cursed himself for adding to her distress. "But he will see your inheritance secured; most likely he'll take Etinsmere under his own protection. He was your father's friend, and he will be ours so long as we need him."

Mute, he nodded, turning his gaze back to the shore; less rugged ahead, though the coastal woods thickened again the farther south one travelled. By the Conqueror's Shield, he longed for the steep hills and glades of Etinsmere!

_What was that?_ He stiffened, tense as a cat about to strike. Movement in the trees, the shadowy figure of a soldier?

No. The silhouette was too small. No shaft of piercing sunlight glanced back from armour plate. Drinian's stomach clenched, his knuckles cracking under his terrible grip of the tiller. A dwarf? A faun? _Old Narnia?_

Better that than a Telmarine in arms, though ice formed to tickle the base of his spine and he eased the boat out beyond even the sharpest lookout's range from land. He lingered several minutes beyond sight of the shore before directing the _Lady Elizabetha_ back onto a landward tack, vaguely surprised by his utter want of excitement. The ancient creatures survived in secret. He had known it.

It didn't matter.

At last they spied the mud banks and reed beds that shielded access to the Narnian heartland (the creek which gave its name to Glasswater Province from the old stories, though Drinian dared not tell his mother so) and with much heaving and gasping and slithering on muddy banks, they contrived to get the _Lady Elizabetha _out of the shallows and modestly hidden in the undergrowth. "We must hurry," his mother panted, wiping mud-streaked hands down the side of her torn dun-coloured gown. "If we're to reach Greenglade in darkness."

It never occurred to him to question how Mamma knew her way across miles of Narnian countryside. He fell into step behind her, letting the rough branches and dying leaves strike his face and hands, catching in his damp hair until he might have passed for a woodland creature himself. His feet began to throb, then burn, but his mind settled into a blissful sort of numbness while the light faded away and the very air began to hum with weird sounds. There was no Etinsmere: no pain or uncertainty. Just the steady squish of tired feet on damp earth, the hypnotic rhythm of ragged breathing, and the chilly kiss of air against his cheek.

How long it continued he would never know, even if the memory remained vivid to his dying hour. A cloak was thrown over his shoulders, though he had no recollection of feeling the cold. Only once did his mother pause, producing a flask of watered wine and a handful of sugared fruits for sustenance. The moon rose, pale and watery; the trees rustled and twigs cracked as if under the weight of a dozen troops of small feet.

It ought to have terrified him, a Telmarine unarmed in the clutches of his kind's ancient enemies, but he gave the secret inhabitants of the forests not a thought. With exhaustion came a wonderful emptiness which enveloped mother and son alike. No conversation was attempted: none was needed.

It lasted until they reached the abrupt end of the forest, where trees gave way to newly-harvested fields without warning and left them exposed, small, stark figures against the cloudy vastness of a starless sky.

"This is your uncle's land," Elizabetha murmured, barely needing to bend to hiss into his ear. "Across this valley and up yonder slope to the north is his manor. We need only wait there until His Majesty sends to us."

It was meant as reassurance. Somewhere deep in the corner of his mind still active he knew that, but it was unnecessary. Had half the King's troops, armed to the teeth and screaming war cries, been massed before him, he would still have pushed on, unmindful of the slicing agony of burst blisters across his soles, toward a gentle rise of land topped by the moated fortress of Greenglade.

Lanterns burned in the great gatehouse; the castle beyond blazed with light. Drinian blinked against its unexpected harshness, puzzling at the sight of armed men from his uncle's retinue patrolling the crenulated battlements into the smallest hours, but had time to do no more before a raw, deep voice halted his leaden step. "Who comes?"

"Master Lorian, 'tis Elizabetha, my lord's sister, come with my Lord of Etinsmere to seek the protection of my brother Arlian. Grant us entry in your late lord my father's name!"

"Madam! Swing down the drawbridge, men, and call my lord from his chamber." Instantly the captain of the guard's manner changed. "M'lady, come within, and quickly! Don't you know half the kingdom's in uproar hunting you?"


	5. Chapter 4

Author's Note: As ever, I own nowt! I had fun with this chapter, but the next ones are proving a struggle. I'll stick at it, though: I'm not being defeated by fictional characters getting difficult!

_**FOUR**_

The change from cool open space to the confines of Greenglade's smoke-filled square Tower Parlour, dominated by the shaggy bulk of its master, shook Drinian from his trance. "You may hide safe here, Liza," Arlian boomed, dragging a stool toward the hearth, onto which she collapsed like an abandoned toy. "Though the hounds yelp before the gates, they shall not have you!"

"Hounds, brother?" Listless, she sipped a cup of strong beef broth, beyond recognising its rich taste. Oddly enervated, Drinian gulped his, relishing its scald against his raw throat. Arlian paused in an uncomfortable stoop to the fire, slewing to fix her with a bewildered stare.

"Can you not know half Narnia's roused by the hue and cry?" he blurted. "You're accused, sister: the killing of your lord and the stealing away of the children. And where _is_ my niece? Twice already I've chased that villain Glozelle from our orchards, but don't fret: no daughter of Greenglade will be slandered by _that_ paltry blackguard."

"Tirian was in her chamber. It's not known that she…"

"Her throat was cut," Drinian stated, horribly flat. Arlian spat a violent oath.

"Conqueror confound the monsters that could – Liza, I'll see this is made known and the vile brigands brought to punishment, no matter what the rabble say!"

"The King cannot believe…"

Arlian's head dropped, and Drinian's heart stuttered at the sight of tear tracks running between bushy yellow fringe and unkempt beard. "The King is dead," his uncle announced, pushing stubby fingers back through his hair. "Hence the guard at my gate and the arrogance of Messire Glozelle! Miraz screeches commands from a palace surrounded by his affinity: none of Caspian's council are admitted beyond the courtyard. What greater disaster can befall us, Liza? Narnia and Etinsmere lost on the same black night!"

"Uncle, what of Caspian?" Both grown-ups started: he wondered if it was his question or merely his presence that surprised them. "What will happen to him? The Queen's long dead, now his father…"

"Every man of honour in the kingdom will stand surety for your playmate." A meaty paw dispensed a cuffing meant as consolation. "Miraz dare not strike his nephew, but Caspian is – how old?"

"Six, m'lord." Black brows knit, Drinian chewed hard on his lip. "He has his nurse I know, but no Mamma. He must be lonely!"

"Ah." Uncle visibly relaxed. "You're alarmed for his comfort, as a friend ought to be. For a moment I thought…."

"Brother, enough!" Protectiveness roused Elizabetha from her torpor. "Give us horses and let us be away; I dare not lay Etinsmere's troubles at Greenglade's hearth."

"These are _Narnia's_ troubles, girl; the kingdom turned on its head." Uncle had shrunk, Drinian thought groggily, pressing a hand to his aching eyes. "And to whom but kin do we look at such a moment? Rest here today; there's a hard ride before you to cross the Pire Pass before this time tomorrow."

"If Glozelle should return?"

Arlian almost grinned. "You recall the loose floorboard in our mother's dressing chamber? Two so scrawny should lie cosy under there. The fool shan't find you by tearing the manor to pieces!"

"Thank you." It cost her, but Elizabetha managed to stand unaided; more than Drinian could achieve. His knees gave way and he found himself being hoisted like a sack of turnips over his uncle's shoulder, the world beginning to bounce with every long stride Arlian took. His every muscle went slack. His eyelids drooped. Before Arlian could deposit him into a nest of blankets on a low, cushioned couch, he was fast asleep.

* * *

The gentle slap of rain on the window roused him. Disorientated, he let his gaze wander across the ceiling while the querulous creaking of Grandmother Greenglade, confined to her bed in the next room, grounded him. Otherwise the silence was terrible, and he scratched at the furs which enveloped him, biting hard on his lip to quell a rising urge to cry out. _Where is Mamma? Someone's coming! Hide!_

He shrank back under the covers, stomach clenching with every thump-thud of running feet in the hall. "Cousin, are you awake? I've brought you breakfast – Cook saved some bacon and eggs especially!"

"Nin!" Hoping he was not blushing (or looking as foolish as he felt for cowering from his younger cousin) Drinian kicked his way off the couch, automatically smoothing the random lock of jetty hair that insisted on falling into his eyes. Followed by a buxom, red-cheeked girl bearing a tray, Greenglade's seven-year-old heir skittered to throw himself down on the sofa.

"Papa says we're all to pretend you're not here," he announced.

"Then you shouldn't shout loud enough to be heard the other side of the kingdom."

"I shall take your breakfast away again if you're going to pretend to be grown-up. Oh!" Ninian smacked himself resoundingly on the forehead. "I'm sorry. Mamma says we're all to be respectful and not mention Uncle Etinsmere and – oh!"

"We're all properly sorry, m'lord." Setting her burden to waft enticing scents from the window seat, the maid ducked an untidy curtsey. "If there's aught you want Cook says send word wi' Master Ninian, and you shall have it. M'Lady Liza's coming, with the master. She says you must eat; keep your strength up."

"Thank you." His stomach grumbled its appreciation. "My mother…"

"Here." Elizabetha looked ready to crumble into dust, sinking down beside her nephew. "Your uncle has horses standing by, Drinian, and an escort will hasten us to the border after dark; once in Archenland, your father's sister will give us lodging until the suspicions against me are allayed."

"Nobody believes them scandalous tales, Ma'am," the housemaid burst out, her high complexion reddening further under their astonished stares. "I mean, as if a_ lady_ could do such terrible things – begging your pardon, m'Lord."

Arlian's glower faded a notch. "No man – or woman – of honour would think otherwise. 'Tis Miraz's doing. Ninian, stop goggling your cousin's breakfast, do you have no lessons to attend?"

"No, Papa – I mean, yes, Sir. Good-day, Aunt – Drin." Blushing almost as deeply as the servant, Ninian tripped over his own feet in his haste to flee. For the first time in what felt like months, Drinian laughed.

Ninian clambered upright with a pout and disappeared. Instantly Drinian longed for him to return. The temperature seemed to drop as the door snapped shut behind him.

"Eat your eggs before they're cold," Mamma instructed, her usually melodious voice dusty as a long-dead twig. "Brother, my lord warned you – surely he trusted you with his fears?"

"Aye." Uncle dared not meet her eyes, Drinian noted: his expression a match for Nin's when he expected a whipping for a lesson unlearned. "And I laughed as the King did; called Miraz a knave and a poltroon without the stomach to seize what he yearns for. Don't condemn yourself that you dismissed his fears, Liza; few have the sagacity of Tirian."

She clasped her hands, the hopelessness of the gesture stopping Drinian's forkful of bacon halfway to his mouth. "What's to become of Narnia now his worst fears are come true, brother? He warned us; weak men denied that they take for their rights are more deadly than the striped vipers of the northern waste!"

"M'lord! There's a troop of men at arms come!"

"Down from the window, lad!" He was falling off the window seat before Arlian had time to lunge. Elizabetha scrabbled at the floor, her fingers catching on the rough edges of board until they bled. One came loose in her hands and before Drinian could question why, he was hustled beneath it, rugs and breakfast things tossed in around him before his mother slipped down and the floor was closed up.

"Lie still," she mouthed against his ear, a hand, ghostly in the darkness, fluttering up to caress his cheek. "We shan't be discovered here."

He was sure the pounding of his heart must betray them long before the approaching pack could enter the house. The boards above their heads creaked under Arlian's relentless pacing. He wanted to sneeze.

Resolutely he pinched his nose and brought his knees up to his chin, aware that Mamma was fidgeting uncomfortably in the confined space. _How long must we skulk down here?_

The muffled stamp of feet stopped. Even dulled by the thickness of the floorboards, Uncle's voice was menacing. "Glozelle. What is the meaning of this intrusion?"

"The Lord Protector's business, my Lord."

Drinian had always thought of Glozelle as a sniveller: the type of scrawny hound that lurked at the edge of a village watching for scraps, never bold enough to raid an old dame's kitchen. The edge of insolence in his answer caused a further twisting of his tense muscles.

"Lord Protector?" Arlian sounded suspicious.

"His Grace Prince Miraz." Mamma mewed against his shoulder, sending tiny shudders down to his toes. "Who but his late Majesty's brother should govern the kingdom in the childish years of Prince Caspian?"

"Such matters ought to be decided by the whole council of the realm." Drinian judged his uncle was directly above them, rocking on his heels as he absorbed the news. "But what business has His Highness with my house? Surely naught that could not be achieved without a troop of swordsmen prying into my mother's bedchamber!"

"I beg pardon for the inconvenience, but all's done for your lordship's protection." A smirk was audible. Closing his eyes Drinian summoned Glozelle's lean, foxy face to mind, shaken by the malevolence his imagination conjured. The mutt had its prey cornered, and it was savouring its triumph.

"Your sister is not yet found; she holds her children hostage. You must share the Lord Protector's alarm for your nephew."

A slip, Drinian thought, impotent fury swirling until the blackness around him was tinged blood red. Glozelle _knew_ Kathi was dead!

"What beyond secret spite is there to suggest ill of Elizabetha?" Uncle was petulant. Drinian's gut contracted with the recollection of hearing the exact same tone from Katharina, confronted with evidence of having abducted her brother's toy soldiers. "A wise man – and one who names himself Protector must be _that_ - does not judge on the wild speculations of the rabble."

"His Grace wishes only to see the lady exonerate herself, but this disappearance must alarm a loving kinsman." They were circling each other. Drinian cocked his head, concentrating on identifying each man's path around the room from their tread. Lighter, quicker steps from Glozelle now; less a hungry stray than a hunting cat. "You can hardly wish for more yourself, Arlian."

"Aye. And to ensure my sister's honour, Miraz sends armed men to rampage through my home peering into cupboards?"

"In desperate straits, where is a lady more likely to go than her own place?"

"If she has aught to fear from royal justice, anywhere."

"You will not impede the Lord Protector's men?"

"The Prince will have all my assistance, once his government is confirmed by the Great Council."

"And if aught were to befall your kin before it can be summoned?"

"Elizabetha will not hurt the boy." Uncle's turn to slip: or was it a test? Drinian knew his uncle to be far cleverer than he looked with his untamed beard and careless clothes.

"The Protector's Grace will see the Lord Drinian established with all his rights as Master of Etinsmere. You must wish it!"

"His rights are guaranteed by law and custom. Whatever honours he takes upon himself Miraz can hardly change _that_."

An awkward shuffle was accompanied by an audible change of tack "The little prince calls for his playmate. Think what solace our orphaned Caspian might take from his bosom friend's presence!"

"The Prince will have all Narnia to console him, as soon as we are let into the palace."

"M'lord!" The intrusion of a third voice made Drinian start, cracking his head on the roughened roof of his hideout. "we'm been through the whole house, sir."

Glozelle cleared his throat. Drinian cringed from the approaching footsteps, biting his tongue so hard he tasted blood, slippery and copper, against his teeth. "Should her ladyship come to you, in the name of the Lord Protector—"

"In the name of my master Caspian I'll do that which is right." Arlian's voice sounded directly overhead. "Now, if your rabble has distressed a dying dame long enough, I'll attend my poor mother's comforts."

"Of course, my lord." If Glozelle had found the courage to mock the Lord of Greenglade, what must Miraz's puffed-up pomposity be to bear?


	6. Chapter 5

_**FIVE**_

For safety's sake they remained cooped in the Dowager's dressing room until nightfall: an eternal day of listless card games, barely-touched meals and unfinished conversations that would shimmer through his dreams over years to come. Then, in a flurry of whispering activity, he was bustled through gloomy hallways out to mount a frisky grey pony surrounded by half a dozen stout, stern-faced fellows all armed with bows, swords and shuttered lanterns.

"The countryside's deserted," Uncle was saying in what passed for a whisper to him. "Miraz's poltroons shan't bestir themselves among those damnable trees until midday. Erlick here is a man of the border country, he'll guide you rightly, though how under these leaden skies no man but a demon would know! Mount up, Liza, and remember your promise to Tirian; no looking back!"

"Uncle." Drinian frowned at the broken reed that was his own voice, raspy from a day's under-use. "Where do we go?"

"Your aunt in Archenland, lad; her husband will stand your protector." Arlian scowled at the unfortunate word, bringing to mind as it did the guardian of another fatherless boy. "King Nain's an honest fellow, and the late Queen's brother at that. Half Narnia will be in revolt inside a week; you'll be installed Lord of Etinsmere soon enough. Now – be away, and quickly! I'll send what word to Westerwood I may."

He gave the pony's flank a lusty slap that set the beast into startled motion. The hoofbeats of the whole party began to clatter on the cobbles, making Drinian's ears ring and quite drowning Ninian's final whistled salute.

The boy dared not look back until the encroaching Southern Woods had blocked all trace of Greenglade's battlements from view. Trusting his borrowed mount to trot in the prints of its fellows, he peered through fine drizzle that pattered off leaves and boughs, aware as he had not been the previous night of the countryside through which they passed.

There was none of the adventure he had once dreamed of finding in the forest gloom. He flinched from every small sound, holding himself tense, ready for an assassin's knife between the shoulders that never came. Around him the men of Arlian's household cast gigantic shadows, silent as ghosts and no less ominous. Ahead, his mother urged her mount to an extended canter, turning a ghastly white face back every second minute to ensure he remained in her hoof prints. He had no idea how far it was to Archenland. He knew only he did not want to live there.

At length they began to climb, up beyond the tree line, into drenching rain that plastered his hair down and cooled the stinging heat of tears that scorched his eyes. His pony slithered on the steep slope, and one of the shadows thrust out a steadying arm to stay him when Drinian might have slipped from the saddle. The two peaks guarding the pass soared directly overhead, more frightening in the dark than the giant legend claimed they had once been. "We'm nearly at the pass m'lady. Jus' around the next bend."

He jumped inches from the saddle at the sound of a rusty croak so close to his ear. Mamma reined in her mount, pausing until his pony's soft muzzle nodded level with hers "Then you must leave us, Master Erlick. My brother was wise – let no man of his affinity set foot on foreign soil!"

"You know your way, Ma'am?"

"My son is a fair navigator, and Westerwood lies directly north-west of the crossing. Drinian, can you guide us by the stars?"

He nodded, hoping they would interpret his squint skyward as concentration, not the quashing of an awful wave of wretchedness it was. For the first time the enormity of what they undertook struck home, hollowing his innards and forcing the breath from his lungs. Leaving Narnia now was running away, frank defiance of the Protector. Miraz would not forget the insult.

And Caspian was a baby, not seven for months to come. It might be years before he saw Etinsmere again.

They were watching him; a dozen grown-ups depending on a terrified boy for instruction. Desperately, Drinian called his father's broad-browed, strong face to mind, contorting his leaner features into an impression of the stern facade he knew so well. "So long as we keep The Beaver off the starboard quarter, we shall be steering right," he shrilled, wincing against the harshness of his words. His mother's taut smile relaxed with heartfelt pride.

"So you see, dear Erlick, there's no cause for you to imperil yourself with even a brief exile. My Lord Drinian will guide us to Westerwood. Urge your master from me, be cautious! Tell him this: my lord died by the enmity of Prince Miraz. Not for any thing would he wish that fate to befall his brother! Drinian, the moment we're beyond the pass, spur your pony to the gallop and ride hard for your aunt's land. I shall be a stride behind. Now hurry!"

* * *

Their escort remained silhouetted against the sky as they hared down the southern slope of the mountain, sodden cloaks streaming in their wake until they reached the gentle foothills, less wooded than the Narnian equivalents, where the exertions of their mounts began to tell and their frenzied pace slowed to a shambling trot. "We cannot go home, Mamma," he said at length.

"Having fled in the night? Not while Miraz rules in Caspian's name." She drew alongside, paying no more heed than did he to the rain, or the rolling countryside slowly revealing itself through dawn's languid awakening. "You are Master of Etinsmere now; and as your father often said, ignorance is a sin in a Narnian lord."

"Miraz had them killed." He was, Drinian considered, neither ignorant nor dull-witted, though the grown-ups had spoken as freely as if he would understand nothing they said in the course of a tedious day with nothing more than idle speculation to pass the time. "Papa and His Majesty both."

"Your uncle believes it; and your father feared the lust for power of the Prince should any ill befall his better brother. Murder? Nay, not even Tirian believed he had the stomach for a crime so heinous as_ that_, but some attempt against King Caspian's power… yes.

"He warned the King; urged your uncle, and Glasswater and the Brothers Beaversdam; Bern and Octesian, Revelian and Terian, lord of the Passarids, to see what Miraz did, building a faction against the King's rule… he warned me of overweening ambition in a second son and the peril of a divided court. Had a dozen men only shared the wisdom of your father, that villain would never have ventured so much!"

"If Uncle accuses him, and the King's men stand in support…"

"Without the leadership of a great man – like Caspian, or your poor father – who will stand for Narnia?" Tired, she shook her head. "They have no proof – naught beyond suspicion, how ever strong it may be. If the common people rise against their new government, perhaps… but Tirian swore they care nothing for their king's name, so long as their taxes stay modest and their sons are not carried to war. The realm is weak, the court divided… and when a jealous, vain man seizes that he's dreamed of all his life, naught but death will tear it from his grasp. There can be no place in Miraz's Narnia for Etinsmere's heir. He would make you as much a hostage as the little Prince must be."

"He dare not hurt Caspian?" Unconsciously Drinian sat a little taller in the saddle, aware of a new deference in his mother's sombre speech. Exiled fugitive or not, he was Master of Etinsmere. The title, if not its owner, commanded respect.

"Suspicions enough have been roused; Narnia and Etinsmere gone the same night. To threaten the Prince now would be more than foolish, and Miraz has what your father called _low cunning_. Like that of a rat, he said. Had I only paid heed!"

"The only power that could crush a Prince was the King's, and he _must_ have loved his brother a little at least."

"Perhaps." Her eyebrows knit, and in his heart Drinian shared her palpable doubt. The King had showed his brother only mockery and disdain, the cruelty of a big cat teasing its petrified prey. He remembered a hundreds careless words; a thousand dismissive gestures. How he and his friends had giggled to see the thin, sullen face of Prince Mope wither under every one!

None of them seemed funny now.

Author's Note: Here ends the first portion! I hope you're enjoying it, and will bear with me through Drinian's adventures in exile. Many thanks! Lizzie


	7. Chapter 6

**_SIX_**

Word of their flight had preceded them to the small manor of Westerwood, stout and steely grey in a dreary landscape of harvested brown fieldand pasture. "Narnia sends word you're wanted for treason and murder, but King Nain is not the man to be terrified by the yapping of pups," Admiral Dar hollered, half-carrying his fainting sister-in-law through a square hallway crowded with gawpers to the airy, L-shaped Main Parlour. Drinian, thighs and buttocks knotted tight with cramp, hobbled after them as best he could, resolutely staring ahead.

"Poor wee mite," he heard a girlish voice sigh. "So _young_!"

Hot colour started up the side of his neck, and deliberately he lifted his chin, piercing the knot from which the voice emanated with his best glare. He ached every where; his belly was clenched tight with a potent mix of fright, hunger and misery. But he was Master of Etinsmere, and to be the object of a servant maid's pity was more than he could endure.

* * *

It was a sensation he discovered as the empty days wore on that he had little choice but to harden his heart against. It was evident in the wide-eyed stares of the household, scurrying past his attic chambers on tiptoe as if they were afraid of rousing a slavering monster, not a cowering boy: in the well-meaning, if painful, clouts on the back from Uncle, whose voluble sympathy alerted half the kingdom to the Narnians' plight; and the whispery lectures of Aunt, tall, straight and lean as an aged silver birch, whose sense of family pride seemed more wounded than her heart by her younger brother's violent end.

"Better for Etinsmere that your grandfather had never pulled Caspian the Eighth as a prince from that muddy ditch," she grumbled, glancing up from her flicking needles on the fifth interminable evening after a frugal dinner, while he struggled to study his book by the parlour fire's light. "For centuries we had peace in our own province before my poor father, for whom you were named, chose to end the discord between us and the House of Telmar!"

"Papa was glad he did, Aunt: and had he not, I should never have been Caspian's friend." The story of how Telmar and Etinsmere had revived their former friendship in the rescue of Caspian's grandfather by his on an ancient hunting expedition had been a staple of his father's tale-telling, one Mamma declared grew taller with each recitation. "Has there been no word of him?"

"None." His mother lifted her gaze from the floor, speaking her first word since breakfast time that he could recall. She coughed cautiously into the napkin she held on her lap. "But you must not fret for him: your uncle sent word with a pedlar who crossed the pass this morning. Miraz treats him with deference: all's done in his name. You must not expect him to send word himself."

"Will he be kept prisoner?"

All three grown-ups shuddered, a wordless answer that chilled him to the marrow. "May I leave the room?" he asked in a small voice. Mamma flicked a worried look toward their hosts.

"If you wish, but don't dwell on your playmate's plight." He steadied himself for another of Dar's genial cuffings, biting off the insolent answer that stung his throat. "The poltroon dare not rouse his lords with another death! Aye, get to your bed, lad: your new tutor will come tomorrow, and he has your aunt's promise you'll make him a diligent pupil!"

"I will try, Sir – Aunt."

"Tirian called you _clever but inattentive_ when last he troubled to write." The instant the words were out, Katharina the elder scrambled to recall them. "Though he was so busy with the King's affairs I supposed I ought to be thankful he recalled his absent sister at all. Sleep well, Drinian; shall I send Marisa with a posset?"

"No, Madam – thank you." He made a hasty bow and fled before any more smothering kindnesses could be heaped on him, racing for the privacy of his bedroom before his control should fail.

Everything about Westerwood might have been designed to remind him how superior was Etinsmere. The house was smaller, colder: the country flat and featureless, with no more than a fishpond for a toy boat to sail across within a dozen leagues. Aunt's ceremonious presence vied with the rambunctiousness of Uncle: both of them kind in the way near-strangers feel they must be to unwanted guests. They had no children; nor did any of their acquaintance that had come to commiserate and gawp.

The room's bare walls seemed to close in around him, as if he were no less a prisoner than Caspian must be – they had not denied it. As much for loneliness as grief, he pounded the soft mattress and howled into his pillows until he could cry no more.

Then Narnia rose around him again.

Drenched in blood, he stood amid the ruins of Etinsmere, its sandstone walls crumbled and the verdant woodland turned to ash. He was no longer alone: Papa and Katharina laughed at him, their beloved faces twisted into fearsome masks, blood oozing from their noses and mouths.

He threshed across the bed, hot tears seeping under tightly closed eyelids as he watched himself spin away, tripping over his feet toward the main door which still stood defiant in the middle of the wreckage. It swung inward to reveal a hideous beast in full armour, sword raised to strike down at his unguarded head.

"This is _my_ land," it squawked, the quarrelsome quack of Prince Miraz somehow emerging from the mottled, fleshy features of the dead Caspian. The blade whirled above him: Drinian saw himself sink to his knees, neck bared for the blow.

The being had _hooves_. Its legs were covered with rough brown fur. He shuffled backward, careless of the demons closing in behind: they were known, human, not part Telmarine, part _Old Narnian_ like the monstrosity which stooped down, smoky breath charring his face, ready to…

"Drinian! Please wake, dearest, you are safe!"

"Mamma!" Drenched with sweat he rocketed up into her embrace, scanning the room for pursuing monsters. "I saw – it was Papa, and Kathi, and there was a monster, and Etinsmere in ruins…."

"Hush, Etinsmere will stand long beyond our time: and your father would never do you harm." She rocked him like an infant, smoothing the hair which stuck at wild angles from his crown. Drinian closed his eyes, his ragged breathing beginning to slow as the frenzied tempo of his heartbeat ceased to thunder in his ears. No half-human horrors or fallen castle walls reared up through the darkness.

No Papa. No little sister with ringlets to pull, or to giggle with in a corner. Just the silence of Aunt's neat manor, and the running sore that was his memory of all that was lost.

For an instant, he wished the murderers had found him, too.

"You never even undressed." Mamma's clucking attentions pulled him up from his self-pitying trough. She tugged impatiently at the wrinkled linen of his dark hose. "Quickly, find your night shirt and climb into bed before your aunt hears. Shall I stay?"

"No! I - thank you." He dipped his head, not before, he suspected, she spied the angry tears spiking his eyelashes. "I'm sorry, Mamma."

"That the last week has frightened you?" Her bones creaked with the small effort of standing. Before he could object she had unlaced his jerkin, yanking the quilted satin loose. "'Tis no weakness to be afraid, Drinian. The bravest people are those that can admit fear, as your father did."

"What will we do, Mamma?" He would be taller than her soon, Drinian noted absently. "Can we ever go home?"

"When Miraz falls, aye." Elizabetha drifted toward the door, reluctant, he realised, to face him with the truth he already understood. "Until then, we must presume on your Aunt's kindness, and be as little trouble as we may. You _will_ try to please her, Drinian? Your father delighted in your careless speaking, but Aunt Katharina would have the men of her House more_ courtly_ in their ways. While we are under her roof, we must oblige her as far as possible."

Mamma, Drinian realised, liked Aunt's stifling formality no better than he did.

"I will be good, Mamma," he promised, almost managing not to roll his eyes. She just avoided patting his head.

"I don't doubt it. Will you let me have a glass of hot milk brought to you? I know the nightmares are frightening, but they will fade. Give them time, and your dreams will be of sailing trips again."

He pursed his lips against the tide of bile rising from his gut, dismissing her good intentions with a brief nod. She hesitated a moment, nodded to herself, and was gone.

Immediately, he wished she had stayed. The walls closed in again. He crumpled back onto the bed half-dressed and let the silent tears fall.


	8. Chapter 7

_**SEVEN**_

He managed to receive Master Harmin with courtesy, although it was quickly apparent that the dry old academic could make Mallian at Etinsmere sound like the liveliest of Caspian IX's storytellers. He endured the arrival of a dancing master, and a fencing teacher, with what he considered to be admirable equanimity. He baulked only at his aunt's decree that a guide in deportment be summoned to ensure the Narnian lord did not disgrace his family at the Archenlandish court.

"For we are summoned by His Majesty to Anvard, and the opinion the court forms at your presentation will determine your future position in the country," she told him, gripping him by the wrists hard enough to bruise. "A herald is come from Narnia with demands for your return. His Majesty will hear the Lord of Etinsmere give account of himself before considering Master Miraz's request."

She peered down into his sullen face, just the smallest curl of a lip indicating her displeasure. "You understand the importance of this audience, child? Your mother stands accused of treason and murder, and _you_ are her best defender."

"Surely her innocence is that, Madam?" The words were insolent, and irrepressible. His mother's long hand rested against his arm.

"Drinian, enough," she pleaded.

"I'm sorry, Aunt."

"I _am_ sorry," the elder woman corrected sternly. "Elizabetha, what grammarian did you have to teach the boy?"

"The tutor chosen by your brother, my dear. Drinian you must know – innocence is not enough in the face of a campaign of rumour. What commotion is that, Katharina?"

"Wife! Sister! Here's a half-dead wretch come over the pass from Narnia!"

Aunt's pale, perfect hands clenched reflexively. "He _must_ summon one as if he were halfway across the kingdom," she muttered. "Your brother's man, no doubt. We shall receive the Lord of Greenglade's servant in the west parlour, Husband. Elizabetha…"

"Drinian must hear; especially with His Majesty's determination on our fate imminent." If it were possible for Mamma to pale more he thought she did then, and his heart sank with dawning comprehension. Papa's funeral. The King's. The Lord of Etinsmere must bear with every detail of those hateful matters, even if he_ was_ a wretched, helpless child.

He straightened the sleeve of his black satin jerkin and moved determinedly away from the women, taking station with his back to the window as his father always had when messengers came. His mother took a sharp step toward him, then checked herself, a sad smile ghosting across her thin face. "He is Master of Etinsmere, Katharina. Would you have him ignorant?"

"Of course not. Husband, summon wine – or would you prefer ale, sir? - for our guest. What news have you for us of Narnia, Master…?"

"Lorian, m'lady." Uncle Greenglade's sturdy captain looked like a man recently pulled across country by the stirrup, his hair wilder than Drinian's ever managed to appear, mud streaking his face and a ribbon of torn material fluttering from his russet coat. "And I apologise that I'm lookin' such a sight – had to slide down a ditch to escape a party ridin' hard from the palace with instruction for the herald at Anvard, just on this side o' the pass. M'Lord Drinian – Ma'am. My master bids me tell you first, he is well, and safe."

"I am - glad." Elizabetha's slight nod prompted him into answering for both. "Miraz's men do not - not - harass Greenglade?"

"No more'n they do the rest o' the late King's party, Sir." A servant lifelong of his master's family, the big man showed no unease in accepting a slim, stuttering boy as the room's most significant person. "The master's not been near the Palace: the _Lord Protector's _affinity crowd the halls, guarded the late King's body 'n' surrounded the little Prince at his funeral. The physician that attended when His Majesty's death was first cried came from Miraz's household. Why, half the court o' Narnia's ignored, and my master is of that party."

"My father—"

"A fine funeral, m'Lord, with all the ceremony that could be: banners an' trumpeters, and all the folk o' the North Country gathered." Lorian assured him earnestly. "You'd have been right proud, m'Lord – Ma'am – to see how they grieve for the Lord Tirian in them parts. The Protector attended too – got hissed and jeered, for they've took it badly that your Ladyship be slandered, Ma'am."

Drinian smirked, fierce pride in his rash people swelling his chest. "An' Lord Sopespian stood chief mourner," Lorian continued, gulping the ale brought to him as if he could not feel the change that instantly chilled the room. "He's appointed guardian of Etinsmere in m'Lord here's absence: they don't take well to that imposition, either!"

"Sopespian?" He spat the name as if it tasted of wormwood. "He is no kin to us – and he goes in terror of the Northern Woods! Why, he fairly swooned like a maid when I talked of riding through them alone! Why not Octesian as mourner, his great-grandmother was sister to Papa's? Solivar of Lantern Waste is blood-kin too, if Uncle Greenglade wasn't _trusted_ enough!"

"Sopespian has been of Miraz's council these many years." Elizabetha reminded him mildly. "Anyway, your father thought his Cousin Solivar a craven traitor to the King in his adherence to the Prince."

"And Sopespian was not?" The same thoughts, he fancied, ran through his mother's mind. A babe in leading reins would be a fitter guardian of those rugged, fertile lands than a timorous footman of the Protector's party! "I trust our people won't suffer for their defiance."

"The Protector dursn't strike out yet, young mas – m'Lord - , not wi' half the nobility murmurin' and the commons all in confusion. He made a grand speech; aye, and at His Majesty's ceremonies too. The best o' brothers and the noblest o' Kings, he said. Make sure the Prince is fit to follow in such mighty strides. Burblin' hypocrisy, if you'll pardon me sayin' so!"

"Gladly," replied Drinian at once. Aunt pursed her lips at him.

"Master Lorian – what's said of my sister?" It might be vulgar to ask, but even the worst, he was certain, could be borne better for being fully known. "Was she – have they given her burial?"

Like a pricked balloon the burly fellow deflated. He shuffled his feet. Swallowed hard. Fixing his sights on a point above his questioner's head, he rushed out the awful answer.

"Nobodyknowsm'Lord."

Drinian closed his eyes and bit down hard against the vomit, acid and sour, that surged into his throat. He had imagined it: the Daughter of Etinsmere tossed like a rancid meat joint into an unmarked pit. Abandoned to rot without honour or memorial.

He would see her avenged. He would see justice for all of them!

Lorian cleared his throat, wordlessly asking permission. With a jerk of the head, Drinian gave it.

"First proclamation said she was stolen away – beg pardon, Ma'am!" he added, ducking an untidy bow toward the bereaved mother. "'Twas only after you were beyond the country it changed: now they say – Conqueror strike 'em down, I can't say it…"

"They say I killed her, as I did my lord." Mamma's words dissolved into a fit of harsh coughing. Drinian dashed from his isolated position to thump her resoundingly on the back, scrabbling with his free hand for a handkerchief to mop her streaming eyes. "What other tale – forgive me – could they muster?"

"The first proclamation was written before!" The exclamation burst from him. Drinian began to pace, faster and more furiously as reality's starkness struck home. "Miraz sent those men to murder Papa. They killed Kathi in panic, and their nonsense of a story had to be changed. They'd hang Mamma for their own foul crimes, and I shan't let them do it! I'll wager Miraz killed the King himself!"

None of the grown-ups countered him. Aunt staggered awkwardly to one side as he marched blindly toward her, bristling like an angry lion in his impotent rage. The air thrummed about his head until he could barely hear himself speak, but he kept speaking, ranting lest despair overcome anger and leave him weeping, a pitiful child where the head of a proud and ancient dynasty should stand.

He barely noticed Aunt ushering their messenger away; only half-heard himself manage the necessary thanks for the man's trouble. He knew when the door had shut behind them, for Mamma glided to him, arms lifted in an offer of consolation.

He shoved her away. "I don't want comfort!" he yelled, kicking out at an oak carved boat box facing the door. "They killed Papa, and Kathi and the King and now they have Narnia for themselves and it's not fair! They accuse _you_ – murder and treason my elbow, they're guilty of both themselves! Mamma, I want to go home!"

"You know that can't be." Her hand fluttered as delicate as falling blossom against his cheek, and he found himself turning to bury his hot face against her neck, powerless to control the shuddering sobs that racked him. "But we shall have justice one day: then we'll return; find your poor sister and chase all of Sopespian's party from our provinces. Hush now, before your aunt can chastise you for _conduct unfitting your position!_ We must leave for Anvard soon, and before King Nain you must be master of yourself. I know, 'tis difficult under this suffering, but did not your father teach you that a gentleman must always do honour to his rank?"

It was always this way, he reflected. The madness drained from him as quickly as it was roused, leaving him tired, hollow inside and numbly certain he would never feel any thing for good or ill again. He kissed her pinched cheek, the saltiness of her tears burning his swollen lips, muttered his excuses and charged for the kitchen stair and the nearest escape, through the vegetable patch, from the confines of the estate.

At home he would have run downhill through knotted bracken to the beach, where the tang of brine in the air and the sigh of the waves against his ear would lull his wildest moods. Slowing to a stroll the moment he was out of doors, Drinian regarded the endless expanse of solid land before him with weary dismay.

"By the Conqueror's Sword," he sighed, guiltily aware the oath would horrify more than just Aunt were it to be heard. "What I shouldn't give for a sea breeze in my hair now!"


	9. Chapter 8

_**EIGHT**_

Accompanied by every man of Westerwood who could sit a horse respectably ("We'll make a pretty show for the traitor's spies, lad!" Uncle Dar had decreed) they trotted south to Anvard through a dizzy dance of early snow, wrapped in waxed cloaks to cover their silk and velvet mourning clothes. "His Majesty will be generously inclined to you for your uncle's sake," Aunt told him for the fiftieth time, bringing her fine-boned roan into step with his pony as the countryside became more rolling and small copses showed stark under leaden skies, dotting the hilltops. "But you must rein your temper, answer with more discretion than boldness, and accuse no man! Narnia's suspicions…"

"Are known here, Madam; I understand." If there was a better way to practise the alien diplomatic skills required of him than riding beside Aunt Westerwood for hours, Drinian hoped he would never discover it. His nerves were stretched taut as freshly run rigging, causing his skin to prickle and his legs to quiver against his pony's flanks. "Is that Anvard in the valley?"

"Aye." Though she turned and the side of her fur hood swung over her lean face, the edge of derision in her tone was unmistakable. "Hardly the great fortress of the House of Telmar, you think?"

"It would be difficult to defend such a castle in war."

"Spoken as your father's son. Do you hear, Husband? My Lord Drinian considers your royal palace unlikely to long withstand assault from an enemy."

"By the Lion's Mane, 'tis fortunate Archenland _has_ no enemy," Dar chortled, straightening from his forward crouch over the reins. "_Our_ castle is open to all, you see boy, not built high and hostile like your Telmarine fortress!"

"No, Sir." No battlements or arrow slits, a shallow moat a donkey could wade across if the drawbridge were to be raised… suddenly the residence of the House of Telmar had become a less a king's seat than a stronghold, defensible against assault or siege.

For the first time he considered the possibility it had been intended that way; as sanctuary against the native Narnians his ancestors had vanquished. Recalling the grand poems of battle and conquest he had listened to within its walls suddenly made him feel slightly sick. _All the blood and suffering,_ he thought,_ turned into tales of heroes and triumphs!_

Reared to rejoice in his ancestor Tirian's deeds as a captain of the Conqueror's army, the sensation of discomfort was profoundly unwelcome, even if pondering on it gave some relief to his shredded nerves with the ordeal of presentation looming ever closer.

Their horses were taken by a gaggle of shock-haired grooms in the discreet grey and tawny livery of the Royal Household. A stick-thin, bent old man in a rusty black gown Drinian thought of as a schoolmaster's guided them over the drawbridge, through two crowded antechambers and up a wide flight of silver-railed stairs before halting, so abruptly Uncle Dar nearly ran into him, at a pair of huge gilded doors. He rapped vigorously three times, stepping aside at their opening to announce, in a stentorian bellow that must have risen from his boots:

"Drinian, Lord of Etinsmere, to the King's most gracious Majesty!"

Fifty grizzled heads swivelled toward him. Sucking in a deep breath and feeling very much smaller than he knew himself to be, Drinian took a step forward and bent into his deepest bow.

"The Lord of Etinsmere is dearly welcome at Anvard. Come, my Lord, bring your companions to Us. We are grateful for your riding through this vile weather to attend us."

"We are at Your Majesty's service." The placid voice made him start, and he was briefly thankful for Aunt's repeated instruction which made the dutiful answer instinctive. Kings, in his little experience of the breed, boomed across their Audience Chambers, scaring the servants from their wits. They did not snuffle like soft-hearted schoolmistresses wiping their noses on the coarse sleeves of their gowns!

The throng parted before him, leaving a ribbon of marble tile clear to the steps of a dais hung with tapestries where, tapping a booted foot against the leg of his throne, King Nain peered down through horn-rimmed spectacles, genially smiling at their solemn party.

Drinian paused at the foot of the steps and bowed again, gently grasping the plump and be-ringed hand offered for his kiss. Now he saw Caspian's Uncle Nain, he discovered there was nothing fearsome about him: in fact every thing about him better recalled Master Mallian hunched behind his desk than Caspian the Ninth dominating his Court Chamber.

"We are beseeched by your uncle Westerwood to give hearing against the pleas of His Highness Miraz, styled Lord Protector of the Kingdom of Narnia, that yourself and my lady your mother be expelled from Our dominions and returned to that realm," King Nain declaimed, sing-song style. "What has Your Lordship to say?"

"That we have hope in naught but Your Majesty's just heart to protect us against the vile accusations made against my lady, Sire."

He felt the air stir at his shoulder: Aunt, he guessed, preening herself that all her schooling had its effect in his pretty speech. Little did she know the hands balled behind his back were no gesture of humble submission, but a means of remembering! With each sentence safely formed, he extended a finger downward, readying himself to parrot the next.

"We trust not to fail your Lordship's belief in Our wisdom." The King twirled the end of his pointed auburn beard, light catching on a scattering of silvery threads. "Usher! Summon the Lord Protector's herald. Let us have these dire accusations declared and rebutted. You will present your mother to Us, my Lord?"

"An honour, Sire." In the Conqueror's name, which way was he supposed to give her titles?

He sensed her inching forward, sinking into a delicate curtsy that spread her onyx-sheened skirts like wings. "May it please Your Majesty, I present Elizabetha of Greenglade, Dowager Lady of Etinsmere," Drinian heard himself intone. From the corner of his eye, he caught Mamma's encouraging smile.

"My Lady, you shall have fair hearing of Us." Nain stretched down from his perch, sparing her the need to crane for his proffered hand. "The memory of your kindness to my late sister, once your mistress and Queen, would demand no less, even had you not so eloquent an advocate as this son."

"Your Majesty's graciousness is our greatest protection." She took a pace back the instant the presentation was done, leaving him alone and feeling foolish, desperately trying not to shuffle his feet or stare.

Drinian acknowledged he had never been a bashful child. He had entertained Papa's guests, aye even King Caspian himself, with riddles and poems from the day he had learned to talk, and never known a moment's shyness. Standing now in a room filled with curious, silent strangers, he understood at last why Caspian, Ninian and Katharina had sometimes run away to hide behind their nurses' skirts.

His mouth was dry. His stomach churned. He was horribly afraid he might be sick.

"The Lord Miraz's herald!"

A great stirring swept the length of the Throne Room. Necks craned. Drinian rolled his eyes as far right as they would go, squinting to see what terrible creature Miraz had sent against him.

It took all his strength not to burst out laughing.

"Has he sent his court jester?" somebody asked a little too loudly from the crowd. His lips twitched.

He could not be blamed. Uncle Dar looked ready to burst, and Aunt's eyebrows were lost against the high line of her scraped-back hair. His gold-trimmed red tunic quartered with green, yolk-yellow hose encasing legs once clad in the sovereign's black, Narnia's colourful emissary looked better suited to rattling nonsense than declaiming the business of state, and by his hangdog expression he knew it.

"Master Herald." King Nain's greeting was icily correct. "We understand you are come on the authority of His Highness Miraz, styling himself Lord Protector of my late brother Caspian's realm."

The gaudy herald sucked in a huge breath, paused a moment, and began to declaim at the top of his voice.

"Miraz, by the Declaration of the Great Council of the Realm and by right lineal descent from His Majesty Caspian, son of Erimon, called The Conqueror, Lord Protector of the Realm of Narnia, to his right royal and honoured brother Nain, King of Archenland."

A tiny muscle in Nain's cheek twitched, tugging Drinian's gut with a memory of Papa trying to control his rising temper. He let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding. Plainly it was all right to think the Protector insolent.

"We were not aware the Great Council of Lords had yet confirmed His Highness' title," said the King, easing back against the cushions of his throne. "Continue."

"We most ardently beseech Your Majesty command the return to Our dominions of the Lady Elizabetha, presently fugitive from Our justice within your borders. This lady is suspected of both the slaughter of her lord, Our noble servant Tirian, and the cruel and unnatural killing of her infant daughter. Further, We urge Your Majesty to ensure the safe return to his own place of the lady's captive son, His Grace Drinian, now Lord of Etinsmere in his father's stead. Trusting Your Majesty's sagacity and honour, We remit judgement on this matter to you."

"What ground has your master for suspecting this lady of such monstrous crimes?" the King wondered when the murmuring of his courtiers had ceased. The herald swallowed visibly.

"Why, the manner of her flight, Sire, with my Lord her son as captive! What honest person would fly from her natural protectors, at night and with a child?"

"One, perhaps, that feared for her son's safety? My Lord Drinian, We understand by your uncle's report that your mother was absent from your home at the moment of the assault? But that you were present?"

"Yes, Sire." He was surprised by the confidence ringing in his voice. "My grandmother Greenglade was believed mortally sick. All that household can affirm Mamma was watched within their walls when the assassins struck."

"The word of a child held in his accused mother's care cannot challenge that of a Prince – if I may speak boldly before Your Majesty!"

"You speak boldly indeed, Master Herald, especially for one who concedes this lady is accused by naught more reliable than mischievous bruit." Nain's comment was neutral, but something in the very quietness of the King's manner made Drinian quite giddy. "The Lord Miraz must know that we of Archenland require visible proofs before we condemn the meanest of our subjects; and a nobleman, no matter what his age, has the right to be heard. My Lord Drinian, how old are you?"

"Nine next month, if it please Your Majesty," he replied promptly. Nain sighed heavily.

"Of an age with myself, when this inheritance fell to me. I believe I was deemed grown enough to escape my nurse's strings! These assassins – you saw them?"

"No, Sire, but I did hear their voices."

"Brigands, Your Majesty. Even the Lord Tirian himself did concede in my master's hearing that footpads sometimes roam the Northern provinces."

"Not in armour to break into a great manor!" Drinian burst out, shrill indignation overwhelming even the censorious cluck of his aunt. "What brigand flees without stealing so much as a ring from his victim's finger, Sire?"

"But there _was_ a ring taken!" cried the herald, lurching forward with hands outstretched, animated for the first time. "The Lord Octesian saw it! A large gold signet with a crest!"

Drinian delved into the front of his tunic to yank loose a thin black cord around his neck from which a golden object hung. "This ring?" he asked, widening his eyes as he had seen Caspian do when his nurse was especially cross.

"Token of Your Lordship's proper inheritance." The indulgence of King Nain's grin was tinged with respect. No longer tangled with tension, Drinian stood straighter, meeting the monarch's eye steadily.

"My father would not have had his ring given into any other's hand, Sire." One of Aunt's silken phrases pierced his brain and slipped like melted chocolate over his tongue. "Nor his heir to finer care than Your Majesty's."

"Well, well." Kings expected flattery, he knew that, and though Papa despised the courtier's wiles he had grudgingly confessed to his son their worth. Conscious of the approving smiles around the throne, Drinian could not resist smirking at his dejected countryman.

"Inform Our cousin Miraz, sir, that the Lord Drinian is under Our protection; and that Archenland will have no part in the persecution of his unhappy mother. Usher! Attend this gentleman's wants and set him safe on his way to Narnia. Now my Lord, you have discharged your duties admirably. Tell me; do you pine for your old playmates?"

"Yes, Sire." He didn't want to think of Caspian, the trustiest of them all. Every time he summoned his image to mind, the boy was surrounded by guards in Miraz's livery, all grim faces and gaudy tunics. Some things were worse than dishonourable exile, and being under the hands of Prince Mope and Princess Prune was one of them!

"You are of an age with my children. Bring the Prince and his sister!"

Aunt actually sagged, her whole face lightening into a gratified smile. "Your Majesty is too generous," she simpered, making a curtsy so low he expected her bottom to scrape the marble floor. King Nain waved airily.

"The boy answers well for his year, my dear lady. I'll wager he makes a mighty counsellor to his Prince one day, with such silvered eloquence so young! My scapegrace son may learn from such a stout-stomached a companion! Ah, Corin – Anelia. You will show my Lord of Etinsmere our home?"

"Hullo!" Prince Corin crabbed his way through the ranks of bowing courtiers with all the grace of a badly wound-up toy, spindly limbs spiking at angles as odd as those made by his shock of carrot-coloured hair. "You're from Narnia, my father says! I hope you'll like Archenland well enough."

"I have been made – most welcome, Your Highness." People were hiding sniggers behind their hands, and Drinian was sure King Nain winced. Looming over the Prince's shoulder his twin, sleek and dark without a hair from its proper place, rolled her large brown eyes.

"We are happy to hear it," she fluted, languidly extending her hand. Repressing the urge to mimic her exasperated gesture, Drinian made a performance of kissing it.

From the corner of his eye he distinctly saw her father grin. "If you would care for a tour of the palace, my Lord, we shall be honoured to escort you."

"The honour will be mine, Your Highness." One determined to be empress of her father's court; the other an amenable oddity. They would never be the allies in mischief their cousin in Narnia had been!


	10. Chapter 9

Author's Note: Over the next few chapters, Drinian's adventures will be interspersed with news from home. The names and fates from the dead king's party are lifted from the passage in _Prince Caspian _where Cornelius relates a bit of history to his pupil. The background stories and family connections are my own invention. Thanks to those of you who have been generous enough to review!

_**NINE**_

The excitement of Anvard soon faded, its sharp emotions growing hazy about the edges: like the horrors he had left at Etinsmere, vivid only in the dreams which tormented too many of his nights. Winter laid a heavy hand over much of Archenland, stopping travellers and slowing the arrival of news across her northern border.

Drinian's ninth birthday passed unremarked beyond the house, a painfully quiet contrast to the fanfares with which the day had been noted at the court of his father's best friend. Even among his nearest and dearest, celebrations were so muted he half-thought his family preferred to disregard the great date.

Mamma presented him with a small gold tablet ring embossed with the Etinsmere signet that fit snugly onto his middle finger; Aunt gruffly thrust forward a woollen cloak knitted in the dark blue of the family livery, with the same form of a ship picked out in gold thread on the collar; and Uncle, fidgeting and loud in the funereal silence of a snow-silenced house, bellowed a pledge to carry them all off to Barwell and a pleasure-cruise aboard his brigantine as soon as the weather allowed.

He meant well. Everyone did, but few were able to convey their kind intentions without stabbing their fingers straight into the jagged scars that laced across his heart.

His elderly sailor uncle had quickly become the nearest Drinian had to a playmate, bounding like an enormous puppy to the door of the Small Parlour (fairly named, even he conceded) at the end of each day's lessons waving the wooden cutlasses he had carved himself in readiness for mock battles along the Gallery's length. While the women shivered under blankets through the evenings, Dar capered under leaden skies to play hide and seek or skid clumsily over frozen fishponds. For an hour between supper and bed duties were set aside and the masters of Etinsmere and Westerwood alike were given license to play.

Aunt Katharina sniffed; Mamma smiled. And secretly, Drinian wondered if having no children had allowed Uncle Dar to remain a child himself.

No word came from Narnia to greet the New Year. He tried not to let it upset him. After all, with Miraz's men patrolling the borderlands, none of the news to be expected from Greenglade would be good.

His mother tried to scold his pessimism when he ventured to express it, but she never quite succeeded. How could she, Drinian mused, with weeks becoming months, and Miraz confirmed unquestioned in his stolen honours?

* * *

Burrowed under his bedclothes at dead of night, the faint squeaking of a door quite failed to penetrate his mercifully dreamless slumbers. A slight shadow ghosted past his window, an arm extended. Shapely fingers curled around his shoulder, giving a gentle shake.

Drinian yelped, all four limbs flailing in wild defence against his assailant. Goggle-eyed and shaking, he snatched a pillow to parry the dagger thrust his fogged brain anticipated. "Hush, child, 'tis only I!" the Lady Elizabetha hissed as she reeled backward. "Forgive me – were you having nightmares again?"

"N-no, Mamma." She wore a thin wrap over her nightgown, he realised; her hair hung in loose waves over her shoulders, making her seem younger, even childish herself in the dim starlight. "I – what's wrong?"

"My brother's messenger is here at last! Hurry, find a mantle, Lorian dare not linger if he's to evade the patrols before daylight."

Her excitement was contagious, and sufficient for her not even to notice his bare feet as they hurried the length of the corridor and down the main stair. Dar's voice, blessedly loud amid the conspiratorial whispers of the disturbed household, beckoned them join him in the dark main parlour.

"We dare not light the lamps. Elizabetha, let me guide you to a chair. Well, Master – what's your name again, fellow? Lorian, is it? What news of the rebellion?"

"Only that there _is_ no rebellion, m'Lord." Leaves and twigs dripped from the Narnian's garments, and Drinian could see Aunt regarding the mud-patch where he stood with growing anguish. "The Protector's party gains strength by the hour. Rilian of Pond's Valley declared for him two days ago – aye, and was rewarded with guardianship o' Beruna for his trouble, the Duchess there being an infant. There were a score of lords that spoke against the Protector at Great Council, but now… Bargoz of Herrings Path, Hofian, even my Lord's own brother-in-law, the Lord Nairn (to the shame of my Lady, who vows never to set foot in his house again), they're all gone to Miraz's side."

"And all for reward?" Dar snorted.

"The peace o' the realm depends on it, they say." Their visitor sneezed hugely. "Ah, thank 'ee, m'Lord," he added as Drinian offered the handkerchief from his own cloak's pocket. "Spent too long lyin' in a ditch to escape the soldiers, I'll suffer for it soon enough! Narnia needs a quiet regency, that all's well when the little Prince comes to his own. Aye, the same little Prince my master's not seen these two months past! Hofian's named his Master, with the old hag – beg pardon, the _Lady Prunaprismia_ – as overseer."

"Ugh! Caspian will _loathe_ that!"

"And my brother?" His mother did not rebuke the rude aside; remembering her views on the lady, Drinian was hardly surprised. "He has not suffered for his part in our flight?"

"Miraz can accuse him o' nothing, Ma'am, since nobody saw your Ladyship at Greenglade," said the man who had lowered the gate on her arrival. "He's kept at a distance, wi' the Lords Revilian and Restimar, Uvilas and Rhoop… all those of the late King's affinity that can't be bought wi' trifles."

"Not bought, but cowed!" Admiral Dar had listened to his visitor's recitation with temper visibly building, hopping from one foot to the other while banging his balled fists together. "A dozen or so of the realm's greatest men, and not one dares lift a hand against the murderer of his King! Drinian my lad, learn by this: the best ally of wickedness is the damned weakness of _decency_. _Tirian_ would have raised the hue and cry. Not one of these _honourable gentlemen_ dares venture his own position with truth; they sit on their hands, waiting for the commons to rise on their account."

"Which is why my brother died." Aunt's voice would have sliced granite. "He would have begun the furore; demanded to see his master's body, challenged Miraz at every turn… brave perhaps, but what did his courage win Narnia – or him?"

"An honourable name?" Elizabetha suggested, passing a thin hand across her head as if it ached. "Katharina, your brother died for being an honest man, and honesty is what tyrants fear. If there were more of his stamp, Drinian would be established in all his rights by now."

"There's much talk, m'Lady." Lorian bristled, bold enough to speak against a perceived slight to his master.

"And what does _talk_ achieve, save keep Miraz's cronies on their guard?" muttered Dar.

"The Protector watches the good un's like a hawk, Sir – nobody passes through the gates of Greenglade, or Glasswater, or any o' the other great houses without him knowing. To raise revolt under such scrutiny, with no help from the common folk…"

"Perhaps the people would rise more readily if they saw their masters speaking?"

"Aye, lad!" Uncle thumped him on the back, setting off a coughing fit that made Drinian's chest burn and his eyes water. "Your father taught you well. By the Lion's Grace you may yet make a counsellor to King Caspian the Tenth!"

His wife sniffed daintily into her dressing gown's sleeve. "Better he live a peacefully useless life at our court, Husband, safe from the villains and tricksters of Narnia!"

"Drinian will be needed at Etinsmere, my dear: as your brother was, to complete your father's business in restoring its great name." Elizabetha offered a hand to her son, the gesture enough to quell the protest stinging his tongue. "Tirian would not wish us to consider the court of King Nain _ours_, for all his goodness. We will never lose hope of returning – shall we?"

"Never, Mamma." The prospect of lingering in the corridors of Anvard, unoccupied and pitied, an exile for ever, was beyond bearing. Every time it was mentioned his stomach lurched. He was thankful their visitor had begun to fidget, conscious of the lightening sky and the urgent need to be away.

Mamma and Aunt, he knew, would sit discussing the dire news until breakfast time, but he would be excused, and more than anything else he wanted to be left alone with his desolation. His nurse had often declared, when infant frustrations had got best of him, that misery thrived on company.

He found that his much preferred to be left alone.


	11. Chapter 10

_**TEN**_

Two days later he woke shivering, cloudy-eyed and with a thunderous headache. "You've a fever, dearest; you must stay in bed," his mother purred, dabbing a cool cloth against his burning brow while Aunt despatched servants left and right in search of a physician. "Harmin has been sent away, but you must be _sensible_."

He wanted to get up, but when he tried to lift the covers Drinian discovered his limbs were unwilling to oblige. "Feels heavy," he rasped, swallowing against the blistered heat of his throat. Gently, Elizabetha held a glass to his lips.

"You are not used to sickness, and I know patience is foreign to you," she said with a smile, "but unless you lie quiet and let yourself sleep, it will take longer to recover."

"I was never ill in Narnia. Sea air, that's what Papa said."

"Sea air, opened windows and trees to climb," she agreed, her smile slow and wistful. "Now: close you eyes and try to sleep. Either Aunt or I will be here."

Cautious, he lifted a hand toward her. "I should prefer you," he mumbled.

"I know." Soft lips brushed his glowing cheek. Biting her tongue against the searing pain that fired through her head, the Lady Elizabetha stroked her son's hot fingers until she was certain he slept. Then, on tiptoe, she crept from his room and returned, muffling her coughing against her sleeve, to lay down in her own.

* * *

"It must have been your brother's man, Elizabetha dear." The whole household had been laid low with coughs, shivers and fevers for a month, and Aunt Katharina hated it. "Did you not hear how he sneezed?"

"I hope he is recovered as well as we are, Aunt," Drinian piped up from the far end of the breakfast table, tucking into his second helping of toast and jam. "Mamma, if you're finished, may I have your bacon?"

"Bacon and_ jam_?" Shaking her head, she passed her plate the length of the table. "You may return to your lessons today: with an appetite like _this_, we can hardly tell Master Harmin you're unwell!"

"Yes, Mamma." He grimaced behind his aunt's back. The Lady Elizabetha's lips twitched. "Has Master Harmin not arrived, Aunt?"

"No." She steepled her long fingers, frowning at their neat nails. "And I must reprimand him before your lessons begin, Drinian: want of punctuality is reprehensible, and a tutor ought to be setting a better example to a pupil of rank."

"I can see him scuttling toward the house from here, my dear." Dar's greenish eyes twinkled. "And I fancy he anticipates your criticism – never knew the dull old snail could move so quickly, he's fairly skipping along!"

The long-faced tutor was trembling too, Drinian realised when he was ushered into their presence; every roll of parchment in the leather satchel hanging from his bony shoulder quivered. "My Ladies – my Lord Dar – my Lord Drinian, beg pardon for my lateness, I was delayed for want of ink from my merchant in Narnia: the border is closed on account of a man's corpse, half rotting so they say, discovered yesterday."

Drinian's eye was caught by the quick movement of his mother's hands flying up to snatch at her throat. "It could not be," he said flatly.

"Master – what's the fellow's name, Lorcan, Lorin?" Uncle boomed, making his wife wince. "No, of course not, he's safe at Greenglade! How did this unfortunate die, have you word?"

"None, my Lord; nor of his name, though for a certainty he was Narnian, and of common stock. My Lord Drinian, pray finish your breakfast and hurry to the Small Parlour; we shall see what you remember of the succession of the Archenlandish Crown."

"More than I shall need to," he growled, sliding down from his chair. "If Your Graces will excuse me…"

"A moment, Nephew." Silently cursing his rashness, Drinian turned with head bowed under his aunt's stern tone. "I should like to know why you consider Master Harmin's teaching of history so unsuitable."

"Let the lad be, Katharina." Was that a warning in Uncle Dar's words, he wondered? "Of what use will knowing _our_ crown's succession by rote be to a lord of another realm?"

"_If _he is to find himself an honourable place at _our_ court, the boy must know its history. What use is his _Narnian _knowledge here? Had _I _acquired a proper knowledge of these affairs, why! I might have…"

"Drinian, attend to your studies at once."

He glanced toward his mother, relieved by her assenting nod. "Yes, Uncle," he muttered, dashing past the startled tutor in his eagerness to escape the frosty blanket which had descended across the table. As he paused in the corridor, reminded just in time he was meant to follow Harmin into the classroom, he distinctly heard his uncle's final rebuke.

"Don't punish the boy for your own disappointments, Katharina. The Queen had as much place for a foreigner in her household as the court o' King Nain will have noble occupation for a penniless exile. Best give the lad his head – Elizabetha, don't be distressed, you know it only worsens your cough, and…"

"My Lord Drinian?" Harmin called, fixing him with a beady stare from the Small Parlour door. Drinian blushed, abashed for the second time in ten minutes at being caught out. "_Might _I remind your Lordship that a gentleman does_ not_ listen at doors? Now – His present Majesty's father was King Lune: how many of that name had ruled Archenland before him?"

* * *

Aunt was, he noticed, much less inclined to carp thereafter. His efforts were no longer criticised quite so sharply when, at each week's end, Harmin's grudging reports on a recalcitrant pupil's achievements were presented. He was even allowed to loll on the fireside bench with his boots propped on the hearth while listening to his relations' observations.

"You struggle with mathematics, I see," she remarked and involuntarily he stiffened. "Just as your father did! Harmin commends your diligence in the subject – which Tirian's tutor was never known to do…"

"Fractions and calculations frustrated him," Elizabetha commented, tucking her shawl in more closely. "Drinian, will you pour me more wine?"

He sprang up and sloshed a little deep claret liquid into the fine-stemmed glass at her side. "Your throat again, Mamma?" he asked, intercepting the worried look exchanged between their companions. "Can Doctor Kol give you nothing to soothe it?"

"His medicines make me feel sick, but don't look so alarmed, I am stronger every day. Perhaps your father was right and we benefitted from the good sea air at Etinsmere."

"Then we ought to ride to Barwell; did I not promise an outing aboard the _Lady of Westerwood_?" Dar bounced on his seat, beaming at his grinning nephew. "The weather looks to be set fair – coming in from the south, what winds there are will be so light she shan't even roll, and we might pay respects at Anvard on the way. What says my Lord of Etinsmere?"

"I would like that, Sir." Drinian's heart leapt. "Mamma, can we?"

"You indulge us, Dar; and we are grateful." She allowed him to kiss her hand, smiling over his grizzled head at the older woman. Aunt Katharina sighed. Drinian thought she even smiled.

"Very well, I shall send to Harmin that his services are not required for a week," she promised. "So long as _you_, my Lord Former Admiral, will pledge yourself _not_ to snort and scoff at every remark your successor tries to make, should we be forced to endure him! I know the Lord Gurin never went to sea in his life, but his wife _is _His Majesty's second cousin, and King Nain is very fond of her."

"As well for the raddled hag _someone_ is!" Dar chortled at his own witticism. Drinian bit hard against the inside of his cheek to stop himself laughing too. The more he saw of his aunt's marriage, the better he understood its outwardly inexplicable success.


	12. Chapter 11

_**ELEVEN**_

The gaily-coloured pennants that had flown from the turrets of Anvard on their first visit were noticeably absent at their second. King Nain, frowning over a sheaf of papers, hurried to greet them at the gates, a gaggle of councillors tripping on their grey and dull brown robes at his heels. "By your faces I gather you left Westerwood before my messengers could find you," he called even before making his courtliest bow to the ladies. "Pray forgive my filthy hands – we were inspecting the Royal stable, lest Archenland be pulled into this mad adventure of the Protector's!"

"Adventure, Sire?" King Caspian would not have shouted matters of state across the drawbridge, Drinian considered; nor be seen by strangers in a grubby jerkin with a hole at the cuff.

There again, even when invited he would have been reluctant to address _that_ king, even with all the might of Etinsmere at his back!

"Narnia goes to war with the Giants of the Wild Lands." Nain caught the bridle of the boy's mount himself, fondling the frisky grey's muzzle while grooms came running. "They crossed Etinsmoor in numbers – so my Lord Protector's missive claims – to harass the provinces of Etinsmere and Passarid. Nay, your lands were not harmed; a small force mustered of its own will to defy them, but the kingdom's on a war footing with the Lord Terian, head of the House of Passarid, and Lord Sopespian placed in command. How many centuries has it been since the Giants ventured south of their own territories?"

"More than three, Sire." Drinian was careful not to catch his aunt's eye, for however slender his knowledge of the Archenlandish Royal line he knew the history of his own lands and blood as well as any. "The Lord Sarian led the Army of the North."

"Your ancestor? By the Mane of Aslan, I wish _my_ heir knew his lineage so well! Come, my son and the Princess will be delighted to see a nobleman of their own age!"

In other words, Drinian considered, he wanted to discuss the dire news of Narnia with grown-ups. He trailed into the castle at the rear of their group, straining his ears for the odd phrase which might make sense. Giants menacing Etinsmere, and Sopespian of all men despatched to her defence!

He remembered his father's mocking commentary on that gentleman's performance at one of the few tournaments King Caspian had sanctioned, when the men of what he now knew as Miraz's party had strutted against those of the King. _Wields the broadsword like a housemaid's mop!_ _Terian will have his head, if the Conqueror's luck is on our side!_

Papa had not been good at murmuring. Drinian had no doubt the unfortunate warrior had caught the words.

And now he would march beside his opponent of that summer's day into real combat. Despite the cloying warmth of the midday sun, Drinian felt cold to his deepest core. If they were to fail, Etinsmere – _his_ Etinsmere – would smart for it and he, far away and still too young to attend even theoretical councils of war, could do nothing about it.

* * *

"Hullo, Lord Drinian!" Corin capered down the stairs from the secluded Prince's Apartments, waving merrily. "I say! Father tells me Narnia is at war with the Giants, of all the odd things! I should like to go to war."

"Forgive my brother, my Lord." Her lips pursed, Princess Anelia stepped daintily in her twin's wake, swaying backward at every second pace to evade his loosely flailing arm. "Corin _please_ don't thrash about so: remember how angry Father was when you knocked _The Deeds Of King Ram_ from the Entrance Chamber wall!"

"I didn't know it had been taken down for cleaning and not hooked back properly." Corin stuck out his bottom lip. "Father's very proud of his tapestries you see, Lord Drinian – and I _am_ confounded clumsy."

"Father prefers you _not_ to use such terms," the Princess reminded him, folding her hands in such a way all the rings on her fingers caught the light and sent rainbows dancing across the floor.

Drinian found himself liking the Prince a great deal. Anyone who could restrain himself from accidentally smacking such an aggravating sister with a wayward arm was deserving, in his opinion, of the grandest crown.

"You shan't deny I _am_ an oaf, mind. We've tea and biscuits in the nursery – will you share them?"

"Your Highness is very kind." His stomach grumbled its pleasure in the offer. Cocking a brow Anelia's way, he patted it. "My apologies, Madam."

"Accepted, my Lord. You see, Corin, that is what Papa means when he speaks of _mannerly behaviour_."

"My sister's five minutes older than I," Corin hissed, directing their guest up the stairs with an amiable jab of the finger. "She thinks it gives her the right to tell me what to do."

"Only to ask you, behave as a prince ought." Twisting to glare over her shoulder, Anelia lost her footing and stumbled, flopping like a glittering doll onto the top step. "Ow! I suppose you think that funny, Corin you wretch!"

"Not at all, most distressing." The two boys were careful to avoid each other's eyes as Corin hauled his pink-faced sister to her feet. "Father always says, a lady ought to be sure to hold up her gown on the stairs; she might do herself a nasty injury, he says. Did you know my aunt by the way, my Lord? She was Queen of Narnia, Father's sister you know."

"She was always kind to me."

"Papa says I resemble her." Anelia took the one single chair in the room, leaving the boys to occupy a narrow unpadded bench. "And that she was a great beauty."

"So she was held in Narnia, Your Highness." She offered the biscuit tray to him and smirked at her brother when he selected one of the jam and cream circles, biting into it with crumb-scattering relish. "But she died when I was five; too young to judge such a matter for myself."

"You know our Cousin Caspian too," Corin observed, knocking the tray clean off the table in his animation. "Oops! No, don't call for the maid, I shall clear the mess."

He dropped onto his knees and thrust his head under the table. "Gosh, they do break easily, biscuits, don't they?" he yelled, scrabbling like an agitated rabbit. "I've got the better part – ow!"

As he emerged rubbing his crown, his two companions found themselves exchanging gleeful grins. "You see," Anelia confided, leaning close as if she were sharing a state secret. "My brother really is the most confounded oaf in the kingdom!"


	13. Chapter 12

_**TWELVE**_

The port of Barwell proved a disappointing place; a sprawling village of taverns, shacks and fishmongers shops sheltered half a league from the mouth of the Winding Arrow River. Small fishing smacks, brigs and barques clustered along the stone-built quay where hawkers and pedlars clamoured for the attention of brawny seamen and gaudily dressed women. Drinian had no need to glance at his aunt's severe expression to guess at her disapproval of so ragged a place.

Still, the air struck his nostrils with a faintly salt tang, and a large galleon inched against the current toward an anchorage beyond the town itself, her sails all set and curving to the wind. "The flagship,_ Tiger_," Dar identified. "Back from a cruise against pirates I fancy. We turn north here, toward her mooring. I may not be admiral any longer, but I've some privileges still, and as respectable a residence as this paltry place can boast. Close your eyes as we approach the wharf, Elizabetha m'dear: my wife will tell you, 'tis a den of iniquity and vice, naught but what you expect with rough sailors filling the town. Drinian, you see the mast rising three points to starboard? _That_ is the _Lady of Westerwood. _Tidier, you think, than most o' the flotsam which fills the harbour?"

"She looks weatherly, Sir." His attention had been seized by a knot of ragged fellows with uncombed hair and swollen eyes hunkered down close to the brigantine's mooring. Half of them had chains around their ankles. Two burly individuals with tattoos down their arms stood behind them with swords drawn. "Uncle – who are those men?"

His voice, still high and childish, carried clearly on the still air. Dar cleared his throat and Drinian thought his mother bit her lip. "Villains, my boy; cutpurses and drunkards for the most part, swept up for useful service by the press."

Every muscle contracted. "The press-gang?" he repeated. "Papa said…"

"Your father had grand ideas for his fleet; aye, and worthy ones. But the plain truth is, a ship cannot sail on volunteers alone. They may be the worst dregs o' the taverns, but those wretches will keep the King's vessels afloat – aye, and do an honest day's work, which will be a first for most of 'em."

Their journey took them within a few feet of the huddled prisoners. Drinian eyed them warily, half expecting one to leap up and snatch the gold signet that glinted on his finger, but he quickly realised they had not the spirit left to assault an old woman alone, still less a boy surrounded by guardians. They barely even glanced his way: those who could bestir themselves from studying the cold stone on which they sat seemed capable only of casting fearful glances to the gangplank of a sprightly fresh-painted schooner, the _Vixen_. On her main deck a tall man swaggered with a telescope under his arm. "Captain Marin!" Dar bellowed cheerfully. "A fine time your Boson will have, thrashing these surly blackguards into seamen! Are you in dock tomorrow?"

"Aye, my Lord, and right glad I'll be to pipe you aboard." Deepset grey eyes swept the remainder of Dar's little group. "M'Lady. Trust you're in good health?"

"I thank you, Captain." Aunt dipped her silvery head. "Allow me to correct my husband's lapse in manners – not for the first time: my sister and nephew of Etinsmere, Captain Marin."

"I'll bring the lad aboard tomorrow, with your permission, Marin." Dar grinned hugely, not a whit abashed by her gentle rebuke. "His late father was a fine sailor; this one may teach us all a trick one day!"

"Permission granted with pleasure, Sir." Drinian frowned, scanning the words for condescension and found none. "Now Boson, get those damn – _blessed_ lubbers on board, would you have 'em clutter the quay all day? Forgive me, m'Lords – ladies. Stowing the rogues aboard is always the most painful of harbour duties."

"By the Lion's Mane, you have my sympathy with this rabble, Marin!" Only one of the captives (Drinian could think of them in no other way) had the courage to glare as the speaker spurred his stallion into a trot and away.

* * *

He saw nothing of Captain Marin's new crewmen while touring the man's graceful command at his uncle's heels the next morning, and the men who were about decks were all cheerful, busy fellows with bronzed faces and teeth stained yellow by tobacco. "By the Lion's Tail, you have her in fine fettle, Marin!" Dar bawled gleefully. "The _Vixen_ is one of the older ladies o' the fleet, Drinian, not that you should know from the condition of her." He ran a loving hand along the fo'c'sle rail as he admired the unpatched sail that flapped idly above them. "You're preparing for a cruise, I see; what destination has the foo – Lord Admiral Gurin, beg pardon – in mind for you?"

"Galma, my Lord." Marin was not, Drinian decided, as old as he had thought from shore level. Though he was grey-haired, his deeply tanned brow creased with lines, the wiry seamen could hardly be past forty. "'Tis a pity, young master, all these years of howling wind in my ears have hurt my hearing: I'd swear his Lordship was about to pay my Lord Admiral a compliment! Yes, Lar? One o' the new men making difficulties, is he? By the Lion, what manner of Mate is it must call his captain for every small thing? If your Lordships will excuse me."

"Be away, you fretful old hen!" Laughing, Dar shooed the other man down to the main deck. "Lar has served his captain eight years and more, lad; a good captain never damns his officers in company, unless he has full faith in 'em. Remember that."

"Yes, Uncle." Drinian cocked his head, squinting against the flashing glare of sunlight off the polished brass rails. "Sir – why do you and the Captain swear _by the Lion_?"

"Why, _The _Lion of course – Aslan." With a tug of the sleeve, Dar guided his nephew to a low bench set square at the bow beneath the carved fox's head that adorned the prow. "You Telmarines of Narnia have your Conqueror – a pile of crumbling bones in a dusty vault - to swear by. We – well, if the Great Lion ever _did_ live (and that I doubt!), it was more than a thousand years ago, but what's better? A mythic beast that was said to rule all the Northern world, or a mortal man that made his dynasty in a battle he might easily have lost?"

_Aslan_. The name had been whispered in the stories Caspian's nurse sometimes told; fairy tales, she said, of how Narnia used to be. A magnificent Lion, the Highest of High Kings that held sway over the Narnia of Dwarves and Fauns and Beasts who could talk like men.

Well, _Fauns_ were not fairy tales; he had seen that much himself. Papa had known it too, or why would he have been so cross when Drinian reported seeing one?

"Besides," Uncle was saying, stroking his short grizzled beard. "A man must be allowed to tease his wife after twenty years of marriage. Watch your aunt shudder when I invoke the name o' the ancient deity! And on the word of an Etinsmere – would you not do the same in my boots?"

"Yes, Sir." Startled into complete frankness, Drinian joined in his uncle's hearty laughter oblivious to the curious stares they earned. "Is that your boson on the harbour wall?"

"Eh? You've a good eye, to make out that wizened rogue from such a distance. You, sailor! Fetch me a glass, my sight's not so sharp as my nephew's!"

"Aye, Sir." Grinning broadly, a shaggy-haired fellow with a forked black beard lunged over with a telescope to slap into Dar's outstretched palm. "Cap'n Marin sends word that Master Lune's on the quayside by the way: says the brig's fit to sail whenever Your Lordship gives word."

"Ah. As I say, the boy has – by the Lion's Mane, Master Marix! Of all the contemptible old wretches, is it you? The beard…."

"Aye, m'Lord." The seaman allowed himself to be thoroughly pounded on the back. Dar chortled.

"This rogue, Drinian, was aboard the last ship I ever commanded for His Majesty – the _Princess Amaria,_ named for your old playmate Caspian's mother. Came aboard with the press gang and stayed of his own choice…"

"An' to dodge my debts!" Marix leaked the words from the corner of his mouth. Drinian laughed.

"Made an _almost _honest fellow of you, and the finest topman in the King's fleet. Gets up the ratlines faster than a rabbit chased by two stoats, if I recall! You'll want to climb to the fighting top aboard the _Westerwood_, I suppose, Drinian?"

It took two attempts for him to force out the breathless words. "Yes please!"

"Thought you might; but don't tell your aunt I gave it sanction!" Still pumping his old shipmate's hand, Dar ambled after the capering boy to the rope ladder case over the port side. Close by the _Lady of Westerwood_ bobbed eagerly at her anchorage, black dots scurrying about her decks as the men made final preparations to cast off. It was all Drinian could do to keep himself for whistling for joy.

* * *

He was given freedom to dash from stem to stern of his uncle's smart brigantine, and if the seamen who answered his garbled questions also kept discreet watch on his movements Drinian did not see it. For the first time in months, he knew the gentle roll of water beneath a ship's stout keel, and when that water changed from the sluggish ebb of the Winding Arrow to the livelier kick and skip of open sea he felt the blood in his veins rise to match its tempo. With every gulp of fragrant air he took, he felt stronger, _happier_. "I must have missed the sea even more than I realised," he murmured.

"Very likely." Dar patted him on the shoulder, surprisingly gentle. Faint colour stained Drinian's high cheekbones. "No need to be embarrassed: I know the air's stale about Westerwood, however I love the old place. Will you take the wheel, now we're clear of the archipelago? Sartin, step aside and give my nephew his head. Steer nor'-nor' west, Drinian, two points to larboard."

"Aye, Sir!" Jubilant, he seized the spokes of the great wheel, caressing the worn timber as he guided the ship serenely onto her new heading. Dar grunted, exchanging a smug look with the wire-haired, hunchbacked old sea captain Sartin.

"As I said; he has the knack," he growled, watching as Drinian swayed in harmony with his vessel's motion. "Fetch up your sextant, let's see if we can't drum angles and fractions into my Lord of Etinsmere's head better than that prim old woman of a tutor does! You're a practical fellow I fancy, quicker to _do_ than to learn. Take her another point to larboard, I _think_ I saw dolphins breaking the surface ahead."

* * *

The _Lady of Westerwood_ coasted back into her mooring as the sun drowned, a glorious orange ball staining the restless sea, with Drinian proudly hanging over the landward bow clutching a mooring rope as broad as his wrist. His hair was wildly blown and thick with salt; brine tasted tart in the back of his throat, but his eyes were sparkling, and as he waved to her on the quayside, the Lady Elizabetha's tired dark eyes welled with happy tears.

"Dar is too kind to us, Katharina," she whispered, fumbling to find her sister-in-law's gloved hand. "This expedition will have raised Drinian's spirits more than a thousand kind words from King Nain! Be careful, child! Dar, what have you allowed my son to do?"

"What ever the lad wished, m'dear!" Dar looked on gleefully as Drinian launched himself, agile as a cat, onto the quay, dragging the rope in his wake to wind around a stout iron mooring post. The brig's anchor splashed away and, with a gentle thud, the vessel came to rest at the precise moment her gangplank crashed down. "I never saw a more natural sailor in my life; you must promise he'll have his way and a berth in His Majesty's fleet before his twelfth year!"

"Much too young!" his wife protested. Dusting off his stinging hands, Drinian raised a pathetic face to his mother.

"But Mamma, you know Papa always said…" he wailed. "Captain Sartin says he'll stand my sponsor – with Uncle of course. And I should die of boredom doing _nothing_ at court."

His aunt pursed her narrow lips, but Mamma merely nodded, dragging her green mantle close against the freshening breeze. "If the King gives assent, you may join his fleet. Nay, Katharina, you know better than any of us a Narnian, no matter how grand his rank, will find no occupation among the councillors of Archenland. Now hurry, dinner will be waiting! We'll ride for Westerwood tomorrow? If my Lord of Etinsmere is to end his schooling so soon, he were best to apply himself to it in the years remaining!"

"Yes, Mamma." Even Harmin's snuffling lectures could be borne with the praise of Uncle's crew ringing in his ears. Light-hearted, Drinian vaulted into the saddle, whistling the merry tune of a barely-understood seaman's song under his breath as he followed the grown-ups north toward the house.

* * *

They skirted Anvard on the return journey, forced to make a call on Dar's cousin Lady Marna and her husband at their pokey manor of Millstream. They reached home on the fourth day to find a hatchet-faced soldier, his tunic emblazoned with the crowned lily of King Nain pacing the oak panelled hall to greet them.

He made no bows; did not even give time for the ladies to remove their outdoor garments before breaking into speech. "I'm sent by His Majesty with news of Narnia's war for my Lord of Etinsmere."

Drinian had to be pushed forward, not terribly discreetly, by his aunt. "His Majesty is generous to remember me," he ventured, trying to ignore the indulgent smiles which graced every grown-up face. "Although – I see the news you bring is bad."

"Aye, m'Lord." Ah, the man was shocked to find himself addressing a child. Drinian stretched to his full height, lifting his chin. "The Lord Terian is reported fallen in a skirmish against the Giants; his brothers Tolian and Tamarin command Narnia's force in his stead. And the body found on the slopes of Mount Pire last month is identified as a man of Greenglade named Lorian. Rumours fly that he must have been returning from Westerwood when he was struck down from behind."

"By the Lion, Miraz's soldiers do their work as their master does," Drinian yelped, as startled as two of his companions were scandalised by the ease with which the foreign epithet rolled from his tongue. "In the dark and from the rear! Mamma, are you ill?"

"No, no." She sagged against Dar's proffered shoulder, her eyes closed. "My poor brother! He were best not to send to us again."

"Dar, see my sister to her chambers; I'll fetch you some wine, Elizabetha, you do look very pale! Drinian – see this good fellow on his way."

"Yes, Aunt." She was shaken too, he realised, though he would pay for his slip of the tongue after. Perhaps the Head of the Etinsmere family was too grand a creature to be scolded before servants.

It was the one crumb of solace to be drawn from a miserable night.


	14. Chapter 13

_**THIRTEEN**_

What little intelligence seeped across the border as the year progressed did nothing to raise the spirits of the Westerwood household. Lord Tolian was head of the Passarid clan less than a month before falling in a Giant assault against his encampment on the edge of Etinsmoor. A proclamation was issued by the Protector's Council refuting suggestions that the Lord Sopespian had been negligent in mounting guards about the perimeter.

"I suppose that means he _was_," Drinian commented when a worn copy of the document made its way to his schoolroom by way of a kindly groom. "And most likely with Miraz's instruction!"

"A _gentleman _must guard himself against becoming cynical, my Lord," Harmin chided.

"And be known as a witless fool?"

His tutor's greyish lips puckered into an unattractive pout. "And be known as a man of _good nature_, Sir. Now, we ought to attend to your most recent attempt to ruin the noble science of arithmetic. Would your Lordship care to explain how you arrived at these extraordinary answers to the basic mathematical puzzles I presented last week?"

"Ah." It would probably be taken ill if he answered honestly that, getting into a hopeless muddle with his calculations, Drinian had simply guessed. Harmin tutted.

"If Your Grace would spend less time drawing boats in the margins of your books and more time attending to my instructions, we should not _still_ be struggling to master these formulae." The old man's voice rose an octave, then another, until it rang high as his student's own fine treble. A lusty bass chortle echoed through the open doorway.

"Practical experience, that's what the lad needs more than your twittering theory, man!" Uncle Dar bellowed, thrusting his battered sextant box into the bare room. "Give me two evenings' gazing at the stars, taking sights and measurements, and he'll never be defeated by an angle again. What say you, Drinian? Astronomy's a nobleman's art, eh?"

* * *

Dar was as good as his word. A few nights later, when the stars shone brilliantly, Drinian clambered from his bed at midnight, dressed warmly and trotted after his uncle through the attics and out onto a platform built around the ornate main chimney stack. The scratched box containing the old admiral's sextant and telescope lay opened. "Help me unpack 'em, but be gentle; I've had this sextant since my very first day at sea. Now, identify the constellation of Arista for me."

Drinian chewed his bottom lip, trying not to squint as he surveyed the magical twinkling blanket above. "There," he said, his hand wavering in an uncertain point. "Two points south-east, with the planet Bilaris at its head."

"Now, take a sight from Bilaris as you would the sun at midday. Elbow down a touch, lad!"

_That_ was easy; keeping the planet visible in one half-moon mirror and the lie of the land in the other. By his companion's grin Drinian gathered he had performed the task successfully. Dar chalked the figures he called onto a roof tile, hissing instructions while the boy wrestled with a delicate instrument and the strain of mental calculation. "Harmin ought to concentrate on your subtraction," he muttered at length. "See? You said _eight_, not seven, and that puts us four leagues north of where we know ourselves to be. Take another sight – swing south and use Marilis as your guide this time. And for the love o' the Lion, stop fidgeting unless you'd have us both falling into your aunt's thrice-benighted rose beds!"

At the second attempt he calculated their latitude to perfection, winning a slap on the back that made him yelp and grab the chimney pot in fright. "These damned tutors are all the same, y'see," his uncle grumbled, tenderly packing away his treasured tool. "Spout principles and formulae and never show a man their uses! What star are you searching for, by the bye?"

"The constellation of the Great Swan." It had been the most brilliant in Etinsmere's skies, and to identify it might, Drinian considered, make home feel less distant. "It _ought_ to be there, but I dare say it looks different from such a southerly position."

A plump paw caught his wrist, guiding the telescope around. "There, see! And don't fret: for all your aunt's plans, you'll be Master of Etinsmere, not a mannerly dolt at Anvard, one day. Miraz will fall. The Narnians cannot be cowed for ever."

His eyelids prickled painfully, but Drinian was determined not to cry. "We'll have news in a week or so," the old man told him kindly. "The _Lady of Westerwood_ set sail for the north yesterday, and Sartin has orders to take his cargo of wine to Beruna and gather all the intelligence he may. Your mother feared you'd demand to sail aboard her, if you knew what we were plotting."

"No, Uncle." He lowered the glass, forcing a tremulous smile. "To be so near Narnia and not go ashore… I couldn't bear that. Captain Sartin is in no danger though? Miraz may know the brig as yours."

"Sartin's a shrewd fellow, and I was exporting our wine to Narnia before Caspian the Ninth succeeded to his father's throne! Who knows? He may even hear tell of your friend the Prince! The Royal household's supplied from Beruna market, he's sure to find its servants gossiping in the taverns. Now, help me pack these things away, and hurry back to your bed. Your aunt will expect you bright and attentive at breakfast, if we're to continue these late lessons."

"Yes, Sir." Though his hand quivered, Drinian lifted it to his brow in a smart salute. Dar beamed.

"Make a sailor of you yet," he murmured fondly as the boy vaulted inside, swinging on the stout roof beam. "By the Lion's Mane, you're fairly sprouting up, Drinian! You shall need a new mount as well as new clothes before we next present you at Anvard! Either your arms have got longer, or your jerkin's shrunk!"

* * *

For two weeks it seemed the household held its breath. As the daylight hours lengthened, Drinian escaped his studies as soon as he could and loitered until dinnertime out of doors, idly making ankle-traps in the wheat fields and plucking the heads off a myriad of wild flowers on the approach to Westerwood, ears permanently pricked for the shuddering thump-thump of racing hooves. He was irritable with his tutor and impatient with his dancing master. When Aunt Katharina scolded him, he was insolent to her as well, and sent to spend a frustrated evening staring out from his chambers.

At last, returning from a solitary evening ride aboard his uncle's mildest gelding, he spied a strange chestnut cob being rubbed down in the stable yard. "You're wanted in the parlour, m'Lord!" plump, cherubic Ostin the horse master called across the beast's sturdy back. "Cap'n's come! Leave Standard there to me – I'll tend him, master wants you directly."

His belly clenched. Now the moment was upon him he found he was no longer so desperate for news of home; but it could not be avoided. Drinian squared his shoulders, gave his shirt sleeves a vicious tug down to cover his bony wrists, and marched in through the servants' door to the gloom of the quiet house.

"Ah, Drinian!" Uncle was booming, which ought to have been a good sign; but when the loud voice was combined with a mottled complexion and a lowering scowl, might also mean Dar's temper ran dangerously close to breaking. "Fetch your mother a glass of water – she'll not take rum, though it's better after a bad fright. Elizabetha you shan't blame yourself: your brother will not."

"Husband. Perhaps you might allow our guest to convey his news to my nephew?" Though she would never be called beautiful, there was something striking about the Lady of Westerwood in that desolate moment, standing detached from her companions to stare through the wide-open window. Fighting off the urge to run and hide, Drinian sloshed water into two glasses on a silver tray at the fireside, offering one to his aunt before crumpling to his knees beside his mother's chair. "Is my uncle unwell?" he ventured.

"Placed under guard." Though her dark eyes shone with moisture, Elizabetha formed the word steadily. "With his old friend Erimon, the Warden of the Southern Marches. Your uncle is charged with treasonable utterance; plotting within Narnia and beyond against the Protector's government."

Everything froze around him. The ticking of a clock thrummed like thunder through his brain. "Arrested?" he whispered, hearing his own voice from a great distance. "Uncle?"

Reluctantly he glanced to the newcomer. "'S true, m'Lord," Sartin, still shaking the road's dust from his waves of grey hair, affirmed. "Taken last week both of 'em, and a dozen of their household fellows too. Solivar, Lord o' the Lantern Waste, is appointed to investigate; this I had from one of his own affinity. Matters arising from the death o' one Lorian, he said. Suspected of crossing out o' Narnia to further a conspiracy against the _Lord Protector._"

"Because of us." As time began to move again Drinian felt the room lurch and had to grip his mother's knees, swallowing hard against the bile which burned the back of his throat. "Because he helped us escape. What – what will happen to him?"

"Treason is a capital crime." A single drop of blood formed on the Lady Elizabetha's lower lip, a livid splash of colour on a deathly white ground. "If Miraz can contrive enough _evidence_, he will die."

"Like the King and Papa." Careful, still expecting the floor to ascend against him, Drinian rose, clasping both hands behind his back lest anyone should see how they trembled. "Do people not _question_? Can nobody _see_ – Restimar, Rhoop and Belisar, they're all kin to Erimon, can they do _nothing?"_

"The first that raises his hand against Miraz will take the hardest fall." Uncle Dar could stay still no longer, striding across the chamber and back, the familiar slight roll of his gait turned into a pronounced sway as he increased his pace. "I dare say Arlian grumbled against the usurper – I'll wager they all do!"

"But his connection with us brings him that party's especial contempt." Elizabetha extended her hand to him and Drinian grasped it, terrified by the realisation that Mamma reached out for _his_ support. "I ought never to have gone to him!"

"Where else is a sister to turn, if not to her brother?" The distance fell away. Suddenly Aunt was a part of their dejected company again, crossing the parlour to stroke the younger woman's tumble of jet black curls. "The Passarids are leaderless – Tamarin may be a good soldier, but he has a weak mind – Arlian and Erimon arrested. Pity the nobles of Narnia that have no connections beyond the realm to run to! Miraz will ruin them all."

"The Passarids?" Drinian snatched at the name like a drowning man at a rope. "Is there more news of the war?"

"The north country's unharmed, m'Lord," Sartin promised, trying not to smirk as the boy's pinched features relaxed in possessive relief. "But the younger son o' the Lord Tolian – barely out of the classroom, so I hear –was killed inside a week of his sire. There's only his brother and an infant girl – Malica or some such – under the protection of Lord Tamarin, head of the House now his two brothers are gone."

"The poor child! She cannot be two years old!" Mamma _would_ think about that, of course.

Aunt's concerns, Drinian admitted without shame, chimed better with his own. "Who will dare speak against Miraz now?" she wondered, twisting her long fingers on each word she spoke. "Terian or Tolian might have been goaded – the Passarids were always quarrelsome. Greenglade could have been provoked. Who among the late King's party is left that dares raise rebellion?"

"None of them," Drinian told her flatly. His mother sighed, pressing his fingers with a force he had not guessed she might possess.

"My Lord of Etinsmere is right, Katharina," she said, using his title, Drinian guessed, to forestall any argument. "Miraz has Narnia by the neck; my brother's disgrace will only tighten his grip. Captain Sartin, we are indebted to you for troubles taken. You _will_ stay for dinner? Any news, even ill, is better than ignorant silence. You remember, Drinian, how your father always maintained it was so?"


	15. Chapter 14

_**FOURTEEN**_

Summer crawled across the fields around Westerwood, ripening the wheat fields to gold and bringing Aunt's massed rose beds into aromatic bloom. The whole house seemed to reek of their sweetness, making Drinian's throat sting and his mother's eyes water continually. From Narnia, they heard nothing.

"No surprise, my boy!" His uncle bawled when he ventured to protest the lack of reliable news. "The King's sent his men to patrol the border; not even a mouse could cross the pass without his knowledge. We're summoned to Anvard with all speed to hear his reasons. We have a tailor coming this afternoon to fit your Lordship for a suit o' clothes that shan't display your fine ankles to the whole court, and Ostin will accompany us to market tomorrow: you're too tall for that damned pony of your cousin's now."

"But sir, we cannot pay…"

Dar snorted. "No nephew of mine will arrive at Anvard ill-mounted, lad!" he declared. "Elizabetha, this boy's grown old before his time, fretting about bills and debts!"

His mother ruffled his thick hair, smiling though her eyes were shiny. "His father's teaching; a man of rank does not place himself in debt! Perhaps your barber might trim some order to this wild mass too, Dar? The Master of Etinsmere must look his best at our host's court."

Though he groaned as she expected, Drinian was secretly not displeased by the prospect of being primped and fussed about. A visit to Anvard would at least break the tedium of lessons, quiet dinners and solitary ambles around the deserted meadows of Westerwood!

* * *

"Hull – I mean, Greetings, my Lord of Etinsmere – my Lord of Westerwood." Prince Corin stood at the gates of Anvard robed in a regal shade of scarlet that clashed most unfortunately with his vibrant, unusually well-combed hair. "My Lady Westerwood – my Lady Dowager. Be so – um, is it good, or _kind_, Lord Barsin?"

"It makes no odds, Your Highness," the elderly Chamberlain in his shiny blue tunic flushed and tried to shuffle back, making himself invisible in a scrum of sniggering attendants. Drinian thought it lucky Corin could remain so happily oblivious to the effect he had on his future subjects.

"Oh, I thought it might! Very well, then pray be so kind as to follow me to His Majesty's Chamber of Audience."

"No cause for alarm," Dar whispered hotly against his nephew's ear, giving a discreet push to set him into motion across the courtyard "The King's determined to show Narnia he does her exiles honour, and no charge against your kin will change it! Head up, and don't _bumble_ about the halls as the Prince does!"

The corridors and stairways were crowded with courtiers in sparkling finery. Drinian shrank into his new dark green velvet doublet, feeling painfully plain with his lack of gold and silver thread, only the cut-down Etinsmere signet ring on his finger for adornment. The King meant well, he told himself firmly; he was showing Archenland as well as Miraz that His Grace of Etinsmere was no mere object of pity. It was only unfortunate that he did so in such a way as to make perfectly plain how much he _did_ pity him.

Kings, his father had once remarked, did not have to be sensitive. They had only to be _right_.

"My Lords and Ladies all." Nain did them the notable honour of leaving his dais to bid them welcome, with Corin dashing to snatch up the end of his father's cloak, and Anelia sliding from the melee to support his arm. "We are honoured by your coming."

"Your Majesty is more generous than we deserve." From the Princess he earned an encouraging smile that bolstered him more than he quite liked.

"Our generosity you may doubt when you hear our news of your homeland." Trusting his children to guide the rest of the group, Nain personally escorted the boy to a window seat. "My Lady of Etinsmere, pray sit. Word reached Anvard yesterday of still further disaster for Narnia. The Lords Belisar and Uvilas are dead, struck down by wayward arrows while hunting with the Lord Protector's party. Prince Miraz's government is greatly _afflicted_, losing so many of the great noblemen of the realm in so little time."

"No wonder the war goes badly," Drinian grated, fighting off the urge to cry out against the appalling insight slicing him. "Our archers can't bring down a Giant in open moorland, but hit two o' their own kind in a thicket!"

"Drinian!" His mother exclaimed. "I beg Your Majesty's indulgence; the men of Etinsmere are infamous for their unguarded speech – have been through centuries."

"Frankness in a man of rank is considered a virtue by a wise sovereign, dear lady: and my Lord Drinian displays uncommon shrewdness for his years." Nain tapped him on the brow, and had he not been king the boy would have scowled at the blatant condescension. "The great schism between your ancestors and my cousins of the royal House came about through such direct speaking, we understand?"

"Two hundred and more years ago, Sire, our ancestor Drinian called King Lund the Fifth a lunatic." Aunt flinched in referring to her ancestor's ignoble outburst. King Nain cackled.

"That king remembered as Lund the Lack-Brained, if I have my Narnian history right! Caspians the Eighth and Ninth were better judges of a man's mettle; they valued the blunt honesty of Etinsmere as I do. I dare hope my Lord Drinian will be of great service to his country in time to come by following the illustrious traditions of his ancestors: and surely it must alarm any man of sense that _two_ of the realm's greatest nobility should be sent to their graves by _dire accidents_ at the same royal hunt?"

"Glasswater and Western Hills." Mamma, Drinian realised, was finding the obvious conclusion too horrid to acknowledge. "Sire, what of my brother? Greenglade and Southern March – do they remain imprisoned?"

"Of the Lord Arlian we have no word; and our emissaries are dismissed from the kingdom by order of the Protector's Council." Nain removed his spectacles, giving them a thorough polish rather than look his guests in the eye. "Henceforward our borders are closed, our treaties of trade and mutual assistance declared void. His Highness holds Us culpable in these fictitious _plots_ against his authority. For _Our_ part, We consider treaties the business of kings, not protectors of any description. Until my nephew has his rights, therefore…"

Drinian nodded, composing himself into the most sombre expression he could manage. "Have your ambassadors seen Cas – your nephew, Sire?" he asked, not very hopefully. Nain waved away the small slip with an indulgent smile.

"Briefly, aye, and in the presence of _Her Serenity_ Princess Prunaprismia. Ambassador Watin was unable to speak with him, as the lady declares him exceedingly shy."

"Not so much as he used to be," Drinian protested, affronted on his friend's behalf. "Though in _her_ presence I dare say he's afraid to open his mouth!"

"Forgive my nephew, Sire…"

"My dear Lady Westerwood, our emissaries give their own account of dealings with _all_ those of influence in the Protector's affinity." The King dismissed Aunt's simpering. Drinian tried not to grin at her evident chagrin. "And we hear _serenity_ is not a virtue often associated with she who now claims it."

The Lady Elizabetha managed a watery smile. "Your late sister was apt to call the Princess many things, Sire, but…"

"Termagent, harridan and virago were foremost amongst them, in her letters to me at least." Drinian failed completely to hide his smirk, and the King ruffled his hair. "None of which terms, it would seem, my Lord of Etinsmere disputes! In the words of my ambassador, His Royal Highness is either deeply attached to his aunt, or quite terrified of her; for his hand remained in hers, and he showed no desire to speak on his own behalf."

"Drinian?"

"Mamma? Oh!" Understanding dawned. His opinion - for a novelty - was actively required. "I never saw any affection between them, Sire."

"Nor between my nephew and his Narnian uncle?"

Biting his lip against the misery that swamped him, Drinian shook his head. "No, Sire. I wish Casp – His Highness – were in Archenland!"

"As do we all." The glasses came off again, this time enabling the wearer to mop his glistening eyes. "The prospect of rebellion in his name is fading; the nobility is cowed by too many deaths and the imprisonment of their brethren. I fear your residence in my dominions may be prolonged."

He felt Aunt's inhalation and groaned inside. "I am fortunate that my sanctuary is so agreeable, Sire; and my relations so much more generous than my impertinence can merit."

"Well, well." Much amused, Nain summoned his ministers to applaud their precocious guest's witticism. "Impertinence is to be encouraged in a man of status: in later years it may prevent a king's great folly! We hear you are a skilled dancer for your years – aye, and quite the swordsman, if my Lord Admiral here is to be believed."

"Better with a cutlass than the broadsword, Sire," Dar admitted. The King chuckled.

"Gurin! Do you hear, the young gentleman practises with a sailor's blade! Perhaps a berth aboard the Tiger beckons?"

"Your Majesty is gracious to give thought to my nephew's future employment, Sire."

Not for the first time, Drinian suspected his aunt was being rather less than sincere. Uncle Dar shot her a very hard look.

"Will you take luncheon with us, my Lord?" Nain raised his voice, ensuring the whole room understood the favour he was bestowing. "And after, perhaps you shall show off your swordsmanship? The Prince's master attends this afternoon. Perhaps a contest in the Gallery?"

"Gladly, Sire! Though I doubt my skill will match His Highness's."

"I shouldn't be so sure of that," Prince Corin piped up, a bit too loudly. "Farix says I attack like a half-mad spider, doesn't he, Father?"

Nain rolled his eyes. "Only when he means to be complimentary, I fancy! Ah yes, luncheon awaits! My Lady Dowager, with your permission I shall monopolise your son during our meal."

"Your Majesty does us honour." Elizabetha winced as she rose from her perch, while beside her Drinian spied his aunt positively smirking. As the King grasped his arm and, talking cheerily about the weather, guided him toward the Dining Hall he craned his neck, trying to identify the object of her scorn.

A group of black-draped crones, he decided, who peered down their noses at him as if he dripped with stinking bilge water. Plainly attentions to a foreign nobleman, exiled and penniless, were not attentions worth paying.

Aunt, he concluded, was more to be pitied in her permanent state of exile than he.


	16. Chapter 15

_**FIFTEEN**_

Late in the afternoon, stripped to shirt and hose, he ambled toward the Great Gallery on the western side of the castle with his uncle capering in his wake, loudly informing half the kingdom he stood as his nephew's second in the combat to come. Drinian pinned a smile into place and tried not to shrivel too noticeably in his thin garments. He was profoundly grateful when a loud hallooing at the long room's door advertised the presence of a being even more oblivious to sniggers and smirks than Archenland's former Admiral.

"Father's checked the swords are blunted!" Corin yelled, brandishing his weapon with sufficient abandon to make men ten feet away skittish. "I've never fenced before an audience like this, have you?"

"No, Sir." Gingerly accepting the broadsword presented by a deadpan usher, Drinian tested its weight on his fingers, pleased by the blade's balance. "And I should sooner not now!"

Corin gnawed his top lip. "I know! But Father's determined to show us off, you see, and with the Narnian envoys arrived – see, those two surly fellows skulking behind Lord Hastin's shoulder? Reached us before luncheon, I hear, and Father's determined they should see you honoured as our ally. Are you happy with your weapon?"

"Aye, thank you." The sword slipped between slack fingers as realisation struck like a dagger thrust to the belly. The smaller of the emissaries he recognised: Rilian of Pond's Valley, that convert to Miraz's cause. _That traitor_, he corrected furiously, come to scout and menace on his master's behalf. And the King knew.

His knees went watery. His throat tightened and his eyes burned with the effort of keeping back mortified tears. Admiration and applause had been his due as Tirian's pert heir in Narnia. To receive them with calculation, as a statesman's plaything, was unendurable, and he was powerless to protest against it.

"My Lords, step aside and allow the young gentlemen to display themselves!" As if he sensed his guest's reluctance, King Nain clapped his flabby hands, drawing every eye toward the boys. "And Corin - be kind enough to remember, your _sword_ is your weapon, not your elbow."

"Yes, Father." Drinian wondered how often that lecture had been heard. Forcing himself to watch his opponent and not the Protector's agents, he raised his sword and, forward on the balls of his feet, prepared to parry the first blow.

Corin had the better of it at first, in part because his opponent's attention wandered every time a dark-clad Narnian snagged on the edge of his vision, giving the Prince time to lunge forward, spindly arms whirling. "Your point!" Drinian gasped as the rounded tip struck his undefended hip. Corin gave vent to a demented cackle.

Swift as a striking snake, Drinian whirled his sword upward, catching the prince with the flat against his chin. "Ouf!" Corin yelped. "A point to you; didn't see that coming!"

He really was, Drinian conceded as he jumped over an attempted slash across the shins, a most awkward opponent. The King's warning about elbows made sense in the oddest ways: Corin appeared to have half a dozen of them, jabbing as sharply as his sword's point and leaving his opponent bewildered as to which way he ought to dodge next.

He forgot the malevolent observers, intent on his task. His breath came fast and shallow, perspiration dripping into his eyes and making them sting as they danced their way up and down the cavernous chamber. Every clang of blade on blade echoed back from the high ceiling, the sound interspersed with the grunts of the combatants and the encouraging shouts of their audience. "The boy has talent, Dar," Nain called to his cheering courtier. "But no patience! Guard up, my Lord of Etinsmere, your right side's exposed!"

"Father, should you not be – ouch, another point!"

Drinian hooted. Corin sprang at him, gleefully flicking the hem of his shirt. "My point!"

"You're all arms and legs," Drinian groused, throwing himself sharply left to evade Corin's madly flailing free hand. He flicked out with the flat of his weapon, just missing contact with the other boy's arm.

"They said – the nurse pulled me – ouf! –from my mother – by the - arms – until they saw – my legs." Corin confided, punctuating each burst of speech with a lunge. "Truce?"

"Aye." He was glad to drop the heavy broadsword, his arms hanging loose and almost as long as his companion's. Both boys bent double, clutching identical stitches that pierced their sides. "Cutlasses are easier to manage than broadswords!"

"Admirable, my Lords!" King Nain skittered the length of the room to slap both on the back, a gaggle of attendants in his wake offering water, biscuits and cool linen towels. "My son is a rare spider to fend off - arms and legs need another turn toward the trunk, you see - and I've seldom seen a lad of his own years do it so capably. Your mother has retired to a guest chamber with a headache; I trust she will be recovered enough for the ball tonight."

"May I go to her, Sire?" His discomfort was forgotten. Nain gave him a playful pat on the arm.

"I fancy her pain will be eased by the departure of the two gentlemen at the end of the room," he whispered. "But by all means reassure yourself of her well-being. Perhaps, having navigated single combat with my son, we shall see you dance with his sister tonight? Your aunt speaks highly of your elegance…"

Drinian's brows shot up. "And we must allow a mother occasion to glory in the accomplishment of her son," Nain finished comfortably. "My apologies for the intrusion of the Protector's envoys, by the bye; I noticed their presence distracting you, but it must be reported in Narnia…"

"I understand, Sire." Even as he lied, Drinian damned himself for being the kind of cautious courtier Papa had often condemned. Still, the King beamed, Aunt and Uncle visibly relaxed, and the familiar warming murmur of approbation hummed in the air. If he _had_ to simper and skip for his supper in a foreign court, he pledged silently he would at least do it with such dignity that none of them would know what it cost him!

* * *

They were nearly late, so preoccupied were the women in pinching in his gold-edged crimson tunic and primping about with his glossy black hair. "Remember to hold your head up," Aunt whistled between her teeth on their undignified trot through Anvard's pale-painted, winding corridors. "And kiss the Princess's hand at the end of every dance."

His nose wrinkled. "And don't pull faces," his mother added, though he thought she was trying not to giggle. "You are too handsome as you are to hazard the wind changing and being stuck with a grimace!"

Even the Lady of Westerwood was smiling when they reached the grand ballroom, its doors flung wide and the whistle of flute, trumpet and violin twirling out to the main stairs. Lanterns flickered and lamps gleamed, the shadows they cast competing with the pairs who skipped and spun the length of the room. "A jig," Drinian exclaimed, starting to laugh. "I thought it would be all dirges!"

"The King prefers merry tune, though he was never a dancer himself." Dar executed a surprisingly nimble turn, catching his sister-in-law by the hand. "Elizabetha, you're to sit at His Majesty's side; amends for the intrusion o' those whoresons – beg pardon, _ambassadors_ this afternoon."

"No amend is necessary, though it will be pleasant to watch my son do us credit from such a position." Her onyx eyes shone, and under the adoration in them Drinian was sure he grew another inch at least. Bearing with the ceremonious attentions of the girl mincing toward him on her royal father's arm might not be so painful after all.

At least he had no need to fear for his safety, for Anelia was as compact and graceful as her twin was gangly. They matched well in a jig and then a slower, more intricate measure of dips, turns and long strides, her flowing sleeves and billowing skirts whispery against his bare legs. In the excitement of the more vigorous dances, she even forgot to be regal and began to giggle and mock the staid old crows around the room's edge just as his friends in Narnia would have done.

He forgot he was watched, either scorned or pitied by the assembled strangers. Corin joined them in something that became more of a scrum than a dance, the three of them catching hands and spinning until they were too breathless to laugh, the musicians had fallen silent and all the courtiers had stopped to stare.

It was the prince who brought them to a halt, tripping on his sister's train and sending all three crashing into a messy puddle of velvet and silk in the heart of the floor. "You _are_ a clot, Corin!" Anelia shrilled through the boys' howls. "_Honestly_! Thank you, Drinian," she added as he hefted her upright. "How is it you can be as tall as this great spindling boor, yet not a tenth as _clumsy_?"

"Good luck, I dare say." People chuckled at the immediate retort. For a happy moment, he might have been at the Telmar Palace, encouraged in his impudence by all his father's friends.

Then King Nain, all bow legs and bonhomie, ambled across to dust down his outraged daughter, and the memory dissolved. Archenland, however kind its ruler, was not his home. And no matter how fervently Aunt urged him to, he would not – _could _not – let his Narnian instincts go.


	17. Chapter 16

Author's Note: And the news keeps getting worse for our exile. Again, the names and fates are courtesy of the great C.S. Lewis; the background and relationships are my ideas. Let me know what you think!

**_SIXTEEN_**

"A full year," he mumbled, revolted by the sugared porridge his mother pressed upon him, piping hot on a bitter morning. "No, thank you; I'm not hungry."

"And I doubt you slept." Her thin fingers raked through his hair, and though she tried to conceal it he knew she was stifling a yawn. "Neither did I! Your nightmares came back?"

He managed a curt nod, determined not to worry her with the truth: that the bad dreams had tormented him for the full month since their return from Anvard as the date his relations tried to ignore loomed nearer. She looked exhausted, dark smudges giving her swollen eyes a sunken cast; he had heard her coughing every time he roused himself with his own cries during the night. Their hosts were determined not to mention Papa or Katharina: Uncle even refused to use his wife's name lest it distress them, a conspicuous allusion that had the exact opposite effect to the one intended. It would be ungrateful to cry and pound the walls with his fists after all their benevolence.

Drinian did not want to be grateful, or dignified. He wanted to grieve, and he was stifled by their efforts to stop him. At the first opportunity he fled the house, dodged the hallooing grooms in the stable yard and clambered up into the cavernous hayloft to sob in peace.

* * *

They were cautious around him for the next few days, which made him feel even worse. Only the servants treated him as if nothing was amiss, with Haslin and Ostin leading the way, coaxing him out on a bright afternoon to help bring down the apple harvest. Voices rang from the square of laden trees behind the house; fruit dropped into huge baskets, or missed the mark and shattered messily over the grass. "Too many of our pickers are fat and feeble, m'Lord," old Haslin shouted, earning himself a chorus of good-natured booing from the labourers in the branches. "A sprightly lad with a sharp eye will fill twice as many baskets for Cook as they can!"

"Aye, an' four times as fast as you would, you old coot!" The high voice of Ostin's son Warin, one of the few servants near Drinian's age, shrilled above the jeers of his fellows. His tousled dark head stuck out between a fork in the branches to their right. "Climb up, Dr – m'Lord, there's hundreds of apples still to gather."

"Enough that Cook shan't miss one, then?" Laughing, he launched himself at the lower boughs, scrambling up with the agility of a young monkey. Warin leaned across, concealed from the ground by leaves, to shake his hand.

"Neatly covered, Drinian," he muttered, aware the informality would earn him a whipping if overheard. "Haslin's a stickler – worked for m'Lady too long!"

"I'd best escape to sea, if her formality's catching." Inching himself along the stout limb toward a fork overhung with laden boughs, Drinian snapped a rosy fruit free, polishing it briskly on his sleeve. "Aunt shan't venture out today: the grass is too wet for her satin slippers! Where's Cor?"

"The next tree in line." A half-chewed apple whistled through the leaves past his ear. Taking a quick bite, Drinian hurled his own back in return. "Bitter, ain't they?" his hidden assailant observed, just the cracking of a few twigs giving away his movements as he edged along a sturdy branch toward the younger boys. Coppery leaves laced through his blond curls, Cor the kitchen lad thrust another partially eaten fruit their way. "An' half of them are wormy, too."

"Must be Miraz Apples," Drinian mused, twisting three unmarked pieces of fruit from the stems above his head. "Rotten inside and full of worms! Here, Warin, catch!"

"Ow!" The other boy swayed violently, sending apples and twigs tumbling. "Knock me out o' the trees would you? Take that!"

Despite howls of protest from the ground their private battle swiftly degenerated into a free-for-all, with rotted and over-ripe fruit flying between a dozen treetops, shattering against branches and (when they popped out) unprotected heads. "You've a good wrist, Drin," Cor sputtered, pieces of an apple that had struck him square on the chin scattering to shower the indignant adults below. "Two years younger and a stronger throw than me!"

"Aye, but age has made you feeble." From the neighbour tree to the right an especially brownish, pockmarked apple arched, making him duck and snatch at his perch for support. "_That_ was definitely a Miraz! I suppose we ought to put _some_ into the kitchen baskets, mind."

"If we're to have the apple pies Cook promised, an' these are fit for naught else." With visible reluctance Warin dropped the missile he had been aiming across the orchard's width into a pannier set among their tree's thick roots. "An' watch out! M'Lady's coming!"

Every head disappeared below protective crowns of foliage; eager hands wormed out to pluck at apples considered too small or shiny for use as weapons, which tumbled down into the kitchen's baskets like a landslide of loose stones. The mistress of Westerwood slithered on damp grass, but the small squeaks which escaped her narrowed lips were not of dismay that mud clung against her fine slippers. "My nephew!" she panted, seizing the astonished Ostin by a chubby, bark-stained hand. "Where is he?"

"Here, Aunt." With a clatter he dropped directly from his branch, twigs and leaves catching in his hair. He expected chastisement for _clambering about like a kitchen scullion_ until he registered the twist of open agony on her regular features.

"Come with me." It took two attempts for her voice to emerge, and when it did it was barely a squeak. "Your mother needs you."

"Is she ill?" Panic would have rooted him had she not been dragging his hand, heedless of her slipping feet. Her brusque shake of the head did nothing to allay the panic clawing at his gut.

She led him straight to the main parlour, not pausing to remove her filthy shoes. "Mamma, what's wrong?" he cried, sprinting to the fireside couch where she reclined, her brother-in-law stooped down to press a glass filled with pungent liquid against her mouth.

She was crying. Though his feet stopped abruptly at the sight of silvery trails on her cheeks, Drinian was sure his heart kept lurching forward, striking the wall of his chest.

Though her eyes may have glistened, or a tang of salt been detectable when he kissed her cheek, Mamma had never allowed him to see her openly weep before.

She grasped his proffered hand, waving away Dar's awkward attempt to drip more rum – he recognised the smell now and his stomach revolted – against her swollen lips. "We have a guest," she whispered, the words dissolved into coughs. Drinian whipped round, suddenly conscious of a looming figure in the corner of the room.

"M'Lord." The tall young man went down on one knee, gaunt features almost concealed beneath a floppy, mud-marked hat. "Right sorry I am to be the cause o' yet more suffering, sir."

"J-jostain?" The voice at least was familiar, though rusty and harsh, as if to use it strained his vocal chords.

"Aye, my Lord." Etinsmere's old retainer clambered upright with a creak of bone and a half-repressed groan. Drinian gave vent to a startled yelp.

"You're wounded! Uncle, Jostain's shoulder…"

"'S naught, m'Lord." Hurriedly covering the rust-stained hole in his coat was a mistake; blood oozed thick and blackish between the man's grimy fingers. Imperious, Drinian pulled the hand away.

"An arrow?" he questioned, shocked by the fiery surge of temper that lanced through the words. Someone had_ dared_ shoot a man of Etinsmere?

"I'm a deserter, my Lord." An unrepentant one at that; there was defiance, even pride, in the flush that marked the pallid face. "Miraz's patrols chased me through the woods south 'o Beruna; loosed an arrow or three, but 'tis a graze, nothing worse."

"It looks a lot worse." Drinian had grazed elbows and knees enough to know the difference. "Have you summoned a doctor, sir? My man needs attention – and Mamma should be in bed!"

"No." Instantly he regretted his words. Elizabetha swung her feet to the floor, straightening her shoulders, and the last thing he wanted was for her to treat him like an infant and _pretend_. "Jostain has bad news; I am shaken, but…"

"Just needs a tot of rum, lad, but like a lot o' ladies she has a delicate stomach." Uncle's genial bluster had never been less welcome. Drinian bit hard into his tongue, using the pain to stop his confused terror taking control. "I'll fetch some water; we'll bathe your man's wound, but we dare not call our physician."

"I'm a wanted felon, m'Lord. I'll bring no fresh trouble on your family." Jostain's sunken eyes met his mistress's; Elizabetha nodded. "I ran from the Army o' the North a month ago – been hidin' in the woods ever since in fear of my life, should Miraz's search parties find me. Men run from the north every day – the war's gone bad, Lords Sopespian an' Tamarin don't speak…. Old Thorian was crushed under a Giant's foot the last battle I saw… and then, at Bernua…"

"Sit down and let us bathe your shoulder at least." His head was spinning, but somehow Drinian knew there was worse to come. Jostain's adam's apple bobbed as if it intended leaping from his scrawny throat.

"The Lord Arlian, sir, with Erimon of the Southern March, had his head cut off in the market square."

His legs did give way then. Like a bag of turnips Drinian thumped to the ground, feeling nausea rise as the world swam out of focus. He heard Uncle Dar bellowing in the hall; was vaguely conscious of Mamma's quiet sobs above the thunder of blood rushing in his ears. "_Why?_"

Nobody answered: he was almost grateful. Ninian's round, childish face filled his vision and his innards cramped with reminiscent pain. Another heir raised up too soon. Another boy grieving for a beloved father. "Miraz must have hated Caspian the Eighth," he murmured, ending on a high, hysterical giggle. "To make so many sons fatherless! You - Jostain, did you _see_?"

"Aye, m'Lord." Moving gingerly, the fugitive exposed the tattered flesh of his wounded shoulder, grinding his teeth against Dar's tentative probing with a damp cloth. "Got swept up in the scrum on their way to market, I thought: safer to slip in with 'em than risk being seen skulkin' in the woods, I thought. If I'd have known - by the Conqueror, I would've turned north again an' kept running 'til I reached the Wild Lands themselves!"

"Safer to come south." He had to concentrate on _some _thing, Drinian reminded himself; any thing that might help hold his rage and guilt at bay. "Take some rum, Jostain, Papa said it helps numb pain."

"Right glad of it, m'Lord." He was awkward with his left hand, but nevertheless their visitor sucked greedily at the flask offered while pus and dried gore were wiped from the puncture in his right shoulder. The wound was not, Drinian realised with relief, deep; but untreated, infection would soon set in. "Then I'll be on my way – can't loiter here causin' more trouble to your kin, my Lord."

"What you call _trouble_ my father would have named our obligation. Mamma—"

"My Lord of Etinsmere is correct; and you risked your life to bring word to us." Perhaps it would have been kinder, Drinian mused, to stay ignorant, whatever Papa's contempt for that state. His heart twisted to see her being brave, the Daughter of Greenglade struggling to overcome a stricken sister, but her gentle support bolstered his instinctive determination. "You dare not return to Narnia."

"Wouldn't want to, beggin' your Ladyship's pardon." Whistling between his gapped teeth, Jostain leaned away from Dar's ministrations, decisively covering his torn flesh. "Thank 'ee, m'Lord; but I dursn't stay here. You've enmity enough from Master Miraz without harbourin' a fugitive from his war."

"Are we not fugitives ourselves?" Drinian wondered. "Mamma – what of Ninian – and Aunt Linetia?"

"Your aunt's brother Nairn is established by proclamation as guardian of Greenglade until Ninian is of full age. No, his honours are maintained."

"Solivar read a proclamation before – before it were done, m'Lord." It ought to unnerve him, seeing a man who had dandled him on his knee as an infant shuffling and deferential, Drinian considered: but he was approaching ten now, Master of Etinsmere still, for all the usurper's ill-will. "Greenglade's treason – forgive me! – bein' his alone, there's no taint against his blood and honours. Aye, none but that imposed by a damned tyrant! They say the Dowager leaves the room when her brother enters it – an' teaches the young master to do the same."

"Doubt Nin needs much teaching." He at least had sincere relations to guard his interests, however he might chafe against an exile's existence. "My uncle's end was quick, at least?"

"Aye, my Lord." Hazel eyes slid right, to the resolutely impassive face of the woman on the couch. "Made a fair speech, never mentioned Miraz once, and knelt to the block without a quiver, like Lord Erimon before him. There's a dozen more men of Greenglade and Southern March like to have been butchered since. The kingdom's in mortal fear, and not a man-jack of us leaves our cottage without checkin' where our neighbour is first!"

"Yet still nobody dares oppose Miraz's government!" The commons he could not condemn: why should they be brave while their masters skulked like cowards? "Uncle, will you allow Jostain to hide in your house tonight? You can't go back to Narnia; not having ventured here."

"I'll have a corner made ready – without your knowledge of course." Uncle gnawed his lower lip, regarding their visitor with an intensity that made Drinian uneasy. "And as for Narnia – your life would have the value of a buck in the Royal hunting park after fleeing to _us_."

"Beggin' your Lordship's pardon, but I've nowhere else to go. And no, my Lord Drinian; I dursn't make them bast – _villains_ hate this house any more'n they already do."

Dar cleared his throat. "The _Lady of Westerwood_ sails for Galma next week with a cargo of wine and velvet. I've connections through trade…"

Jostain set his feet square apart and scowled. "M'Lord, I shan't abandon my right place."

"Drinian." Elizabetha stretched for his hand. "You must command him," she whispered, hiding the instruction behind his slight frame. "As his master…"

_No!_ his mind screamed, horrified by the realisation. To save his friend's life he must send his servant away. The only alternative: send him back to a certain death, should Miraz's forces find him in Narnia.

Yet Jostain stared at him with pleading eyes, desperate to do what he saw as his duty. Drinian's fingers toyed with the Etinsmere signet on its ribbon around his neck. _Duty_. Had he not been taught that was the guiding star his family's ship always followed?

"You must go to Galma." His voice shook, but his eyes stayed dry. "We shall not allow any man of ours to skulk in the woods waiting for an archer with a truer aim than the last! Uncle – may I sail with you to Galamaia? I must see my man as safe in his exile as I am."

"M'Lord…"

"I should sooner you stayed with us." Lordly authority melted away, leaving a forlorn child who yearned for the smallest connection with home. Drinian shook himself, determined not to falter. "But we must accept what we cannot change; you remember my father always said so? When – when we return to Etinsmere, I'll send for you."

Jostain's taut posture loosened. "On your honour, m'Lord?"

"On the word of an Etinsmere." Drinian fished the ring from his jerkin. For the second time, Jostain went down to his knees.

"I'll not forget it, my Lord," he said formally.

"Nor shall I." Extending his hand, Drinian urged his servant to his feet, fixing the leathery feel of Jostain's palm against his into his memory. "Go with my uncle. When do we ride for Barwell, Sir?"

His relations shared a speaking look. "Four days' time: I'll send word to a merchant friend of mine at Galamaia, he'll take your man in. We'll disguise you as an eager apprentice, Master Jostain," Dar decided. "You'll see you mother to her rooms, Drinian? You come with me, young man: new clothes, and a sling for that arm I think. And how long has it been since you ate a good meal?"


	18. Chapter 17

**_SEVENTEEN_**

The _Lady of Westerwood_ heeled hard onto her northerly course, her sail slapping thunderously against the mainmast with the kick of a freshening breeze. Drinian stood at the starboard rail beside a distinctly queasy Jostain, cleaned up and with his damaged arm hanging limp in a loose black sling. "No good ever came o' the sea, m'Lord," the tall man muttered, casting a wary glance beyond the brig's high sternpiece to the fading smear that was the land. "Even the air tastes funny!"

"And you a man of Etinsmere!" Carefully, Drinian pried his neighbour's fingers one by one from their death-grip of the rail. "All our fortunes came by my ancestor's taking ship against the Conqueror's enemies, you remember? Don't lock your knees; let them bend so you can ride the ship's roll. We have three days aboard to reach Galamaia, Uncle says, and you'll ache everywhere if you stand so _stiffly_."

Jostain's greenish tinge darkened at the thought. "Least o' my worries, m'Lord," he muttered. Drinian rolled his eyes.

"You can go below if you're feeling sick again," he suggested, trying not to sound as bored as he felt. By his companion's grimace, he suspected his best efforts had failed.

"Thank 'ee, m'Lord, but it stinks down there; and I'd rather see what's going to kill me!"

"Miraz's arrows, if you'd stayed in Narnia!"

Jostain grimaced. "Least they're quick! Three days o' this endless rocking and swingin'..."

"Stand less taut as I say and you shan't feel it." Papa had dreamed of making his Etinsmere folk the mariners of Narnia's future. Drinian was almost glad the Lord Tirian was not present to see one of his bravest men whimpering like a baby. "Barin! What _is_ that you're doing?"

The slight sailor stopped in his track. "Just a bit o' housekeeping, my Lord," he answered, giving Drinian's neighbour a doubtful look. "The Admiral - his Lordship, I mean..."

"Uncle would prefer the first title, I think."

"Aye, Sir." Deep lines cut around the sailor's dark eyes as he smiled. "An' wouldn't the rest o' Barwell! Anyrate, he noticed some fraying about the sheets – that's those ropes, feller - and wants 'em replaced when we strike land. I'm commanded to knot and splice for the rest of the day. Care to watch, m'Lord?"

"I know a little of rigging; can I not help?"

He did not see the indulgent smile which crossed Captain Sartin's face; could not know how his high voice carried the length of the squat little craft. "Aye, m'Lord, if you wish," Barin agreed, settling himself cross-legged on the deck. "P'raps you should try sittin' down too, Jostain - might not feel as sick, lower down. Now, my Lord, if you'll start splicin' those tails together for ratlines, I'll set to with the main rig. Keep the ropes taut, and..."

"The knots strong," Drinian finished for him, deftly twisting one end of thick twine around the other. "Jostain, hold the other end for me, please. My arms are not long enough."

"Glad to be o' service, m'Lord." Over his head, the two men smiled. Drinian caught the look and scowled.

Immediately, they were sober again. Engrossed in his task, the boy forgot his brief annoyance. The _Lady of Westerwood _tacked again, the wind strengthening against her sail. Softly, he started to whistle.

Only to stop himself, shocked by the reedy sound. He had not whistled since Narnia.

It felt good to do it again.

* * *

He stayed wakeful late into the night, gazing at the stars from the stern, heedless of the night's chill until Jostain materialised to drape a heavy cloak over his shoulders. "M'Lady'd have my hide if you caught a chill, Sir," the young man murmured, deliberately averting his eyes from the silver path of moonlight which skittered on the crests of plashing waves. "Aye, I know I said I wanted my hammock, but have you been below? All slimly and damp - aye, an' it stinks, too!"

"I shall ask the captain to set the men pumping the bilges in the morning if it upsets you." He tried not to yawn, and failed miserably. "Still, I ought to be in bed. Stay on deck if you prefer the smell of sea air to the bilge water."

"Not much to choose between 'em, Sir." Dropping a stride behind his master, Jostain followed him the brig's length, pattering down the ladder into the engulfing darkness below deck. The raw stink of a fine film of stagnant sea water and sweat stung his nostrils on the short walk forward, dodging between the swaying hammocks and hanging joints of salted meat between them and the hammocks slung at the very bow for their use.

"Can't see a damned thing – not sure I'd care to," Jostain groused, the complaint shimmering warm against his lord's ear. Drinian stifled a chuckle against his hand.

"No more crowded than your dormitory at Etinsmere; though I'll grant you it smells worse." He paused just long enough for the tall man to snigger, before adding: "At least, I hope it does!"

"Aye, m'Lord, your family's right kind to its servants, not leavin' 'em to sleep in the pigsties."

"Clean animals, pigs: or so my grandfather said." The gentle motion of his hammock had an immediate effect on the weight of his eyelids. Usually a restless sleeper, the rocking of a ship in motion was enough to have him snuggling under his thin sheet, half-asleep in a moment. "Jostain?"

"Aye, m'Lord?"

"There's no call for sleeping armed. Your dagger…"

"Feel better for having it, Sir. M'Lady and your father would expect…."

"That I should be quite safe aboard Uncle's ship." Still, it was a pleasant thought to hold as he slid into sleep. His people were, Miraz notwithstanding, still loyally his.

* * *

He was roused by the whistle of wind seeping through the hatches even before the change in his craft's motion could register. "There's a fair storm brewing!" he exclaimed, almost falling from his hammock. "Ugh! Jostain did you _have_ to be sick _there_?"

"Weren't by choice, m'Lord." Obviously the Narnian landsman was not the only weak-stomached member of the crew, Drinian decided; the hold reeked with the sour stink of vomit, and half a dozen of their companions were groaning, bent double or hanging out of their wildly swinging beds, their faces grey in the muted light filtered through a row of heavily glazed portholes. "Conqueror save us! Them _seas_!"

The brig lurched madly, making every man stagger and half of them swear. "The Captain will need all hands on deck, I fancy," Drinian observed, quickest of them all to right himself. He dragged on the previous day's woollen hose and stout jerkin, snatching the ladder rail as the ship bucked against a heavier swell. "Ow! At least we're being pushed in the right direction!"

"Aye, m'Lord." Grizzled tars stood aside, allowing a mere lad to scramble up to the poop ahead of them. Captain Sartin clung to the big wheel, struggling to hold a steady course even with his master's weight thrown in support of his. Men staggered on the main deck, fighting recalcitrant ropes and canvas as the high waves sluiced water across the planking. "If it don't push us to the bottom first!"

"Are all your Narnians such cheery companions, Nephew?" Dar howled over the elements' wails. Drinian chortled.

"Never on dry land, Sir. Jostain, stay away from the side, man! How shall I explain to my mother if you're pulled overboard?"

That, he was satisfied, would keep his servant from danger of drowning for the remainder of their voyage.

The single great sail was being inched up to the mainyard, bunching like an untidy roll of cloth. Across the horizontal beam tiny figures crawled, frantically securing the canvas with strong leather straps. Drinian's gut tightened as one man slipped, legs flailing beneath the greasy beam, only to be dragged back to safety by his neighbour. The boy let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding.

It had never occurred to him, clambering about on a sunny day just off the mouth of the river with land in constant sight, that sail handling aloft might be _dangerous_.

"I suppose that means Uncle shan't let me do it," he muttered, flexing his knees against the vessel's sudden sideways shift. A sodden mariner climbing from the main deck ladder to address his captain staggered. Quick as lightening, Drinian thrust out a steadying hand.

"Thank 'ee, young – m'Lord, rather."

"Ah, Lune." Sartin grimaced at the boson; Drinian suspected the greeting would have been a grin under less trying conditions. "If you've further ill news, keep it to yourself until the weather clears, agreed?"

"No bad news, Sir; sky's lightenin' in the west, so we may be through the worst of it."

"It is!" He could barely believe he had not surveyed the skies the instant he came above deck. Father would be furious at such a basic lapse in seamanship. "Look, the cloud is thinner; and moving slower, too."

"A sailor's eye, that," Sartin risked lifting a hand from the wheel, shielding his eyes as he stared astern. "And a better balance than half the scurvy lubbers we call our crew, my Lord!"

"Born to it; did not Barin praise his knotting and splicing yesterday?" Dar released his grip on the tiller too, and the brig responded with a lurch that sent a dozen men sprawling. "Aslan's confounded Mane! Best hope the lighter airs catch us before Galma, my lad, else all your efforts with the ropes will be for naught! How're the hands, by the bye? Blistered?"

"No, Sir." His palms were, Drinian conceded, still reddened with rope burn, but the slight sting hardly merited a fuss. "When the sail's unfurled, may I help?"

Sartin opened his mouth, caught the former admiral's grin, and snapped it shut again. "If your uncle's willing, m'Lord, aye. Lune – you'll instruct the Lord Drinian?"

"Doubt he'll need it, Cap'n, but I'll stand watch." Water dribbling off the end of his prominent nose, Lune winked at the grinning boy. "Got all the basics o' seamanship already, so the fellows say – 'cepting the shanties of course."

"_Not_ the Gallant Girls of Galamaia, Lune, unless you hope to be attending my burial at Westerwood soon." Dar guffawed massively, and even Sartin smirked. "Aye, skip along, lad; obey the Boson's orders, and keep Jostain here from getting under the fellows' feet! The squall may be passing, Sartin, but I fancy we shall have more between Galma and home!"

* * *

His hands were raw by dinnertime: scrambling about soaked rigging left his palms feeling shredded and his lungs ready to burst from exertion, but his spirits had seldom been higher. He had clambered the length of the mainyard, unbuckling the leather straps which secured the sail; peered in every direction from the fighting top; even been permitted to fire a brace of arrows into the sea to gauge an archer's range. He had spied the crown of another ship's mast before the lookout and identified her as a schooner of Terebinthian rig, winning a slap on the back from Lune and a caw of delight from Uncle Dar. Even Jostain forgot to be frightened, so fascinated was he by watching Drinian's slight figure materialising wherever there was work to be done.

He still slept that night with the hilt of his dagger biting into his hip, even after conceding he would not have recourse to it in his lord's defence among such a crew. And he still eyed the foaming wave that rose like a drooping moustache ahead of the ship's bow on their final morning out from Galma with the suspicion of a man faced with a slavering bear. "Right glad I shall be to have proper ground under my feet that don't keep movin', m'Lord," he admitted, tearing off a chunk of extra bread at breakfast. "An' that don't make a man feel sick to his guts for days at a time! Taken me this long to face food again, and now…"

"You'll find firm ground strange to walk on for a few hours," Drinian warned him cheerfully. "I always find it more unnerving than the motion of a deck! Your merchant friends, Uncle…"

"Will welcome Jostain as a friend, for Narnia's sake as much as mine. They did a fair trade with Caspian the Ninth's court; all stopped under Miraz. You'll ride with us to Raimon's estate?"

"Yes, Sir." Drinian fought the mutinous expression that was determined to steal over his face. "But – you _will_ let me help run up the new rig? Lune said…"

"We'll be at anchor a week; ample time to learn your craft in the dockyard as well as seeing your man settled in his new home. Nay, Sartin; my nephew is set on a naval career, best he discover the chaos and damned corruption o' the world's shipwrights young. He has the fabled temper of Etinsmere. Wager he'll fairly terrorise the idle dogs in years to come!"

"Glad I shall be to see it, m'Lord." Sartin raised his cup in playful salute. "We've made good speed to here. If you take a glass to the fighting top, Captain Drinian, you should sight Galma within the hour."

"Thank you – _Admiral_ Sartin." With a cheeky grin, he abandoned the remnants of his breakfast, snatching up the telescope under their bench. Jostain shook his untidy head.

"Proper proud my Lord Tirian would be," he murmured, the sliver of sound stopping Drinian dead in his tracks. Papa? Proud of him?

He was slow to spot the grey smear of land forming on the horizon, for even an hour after they were spoken the memory of Jostain's words kept tears fresh in his eyes.


	19. Chapter 18

_**EIGHTEEN**_

The brig shuddered to her core, crashing into the slime-covered harbour wall with unwonted force. Drinian winced for the poor fellows hanging in the rigging, certain the great mast timber itself must have bowed against such a juddering stop. Still, he could hardly blame the captain for their inelegant anchoring; even finding a berth for a squat trading vessel to slide into was a treacherous task in so crowded a port.

Galamaia from the sea looked disappointingly like a larger Barwell; low, timber-framed shops, their paintwork cracked and peeling, taverns and tiny houses nestled between giant stone warehouses, their open doors spilling every type of hardware and provision into the dusty street. "Soil's poor hereabout," Lune remarked, beating time to the last grunts of a capstan shanty while the anchor splashed away. "Import just about everything they eat, the Galmians – most of it from Narnia in days past, I'll wager. Coo! Don't half stink o' rotten fish, this place!"

"Herring." They had been his sister's favourite. Drinian wondered if that was why their pungent stink made his stomach turn now. "Barrels of them to be smoked, look!"

"Messy job, that." Jostain looked as impressed with his new residence as Drinian felt. "Fish guts everywhere! You did say my landlord's a farmer, m'Lord?"

"A wool merchant who owns land beyond the town, according to Uncle. You shan't be sent fishing, I have his word on it."

"Skippers hereabout'll be glad to hear it, m'Lord, they can't be carryin' retching lubbers on every voyage." Lune, he realised, rather liked Jostain. He would not be alone in missing his friend on their homeward journey.

* * *

The instant the hold was emptied the Narnians were summoned, smartened in the captain's cabin and marched down the gangplank onto Galmian soil. "Raimon will meet us at his establishment on the main market square," Dar hollered, ensuring every passing idler turned to gawp. "I've assured him in my nephew's name you're an honest fellow whose hand will _not_ be found in the monthly rents; and a hard working countryman at that. Do Etinsmere credit in your exile, as your lord does."

"We need not doubt it." Jostain's features were pinched, and irritation surged to heat Drinian's blood. He dug his fingernails into his palms, concentrating on the sensation against the tide of useless indignation: Uncle meant no harm with what he considered a trifling joke. "I hope only that Master Raimon is worthy of so honourable a servant."

Jostain's tight lips slackened into a pleased smile. "Thank you, m'Lord!" he muttered, dropping half a pace behind as the harbour road turned sharply inland, thinning into a dusty track two carts could not pass on.

Tall, narrow buildings loomed on either side, filtering the watery sunlight and (Drinian suspected) concealing in shadow a good deal of the filth he could smell compressed in the wheel ruts. "Not the most promising first sight o' foreign lands, lad, but it does improve past farther in," his uncle stage-whispered. Tow-headed children peered from windows; scrawny dogs chased svelte, strutting cats down alleyways between blocks. An old woman dragged a squealing goat toward the dock, kicking up dust in their faces as they passed.

Drinian wished profoundly he had been allowed to remain aboard.

His memory meandered back to Narnia four summers ago, when emissaries from the Duke of Galma had visited King Caspian to announce the birth of a daughter to their lord. Restimar he thought it had been who, having partaken too liberally of His Majesty's hospitality, had blurted in the orchard that _they'll see the wench Queen of Narnia before our Prince is out of leading reins!_

How was he to have known that prince, with his older playmate, had sheltered in the trees above him? Caspian might scarce have passed his sixth birthday, but he had understood the indiscreet remark, and the horror in his eyes had been a sight to behold. A baby? A _girl_? Betrothed to _him_?

He would be even more scandalised to see the paltry place that baby's father ruled. Even as they emerged from the passageway's end into an airy square lined with arcaded shops and substantial houses, Drinian was comparing Galamaia with the towns of Narnia and finding it severely wanting. To think he and his friends had whispered in awe of such an exotic-sounding distant place!

The main market clustered in the middle of the square, stalls and lean-to tables loaded with meat, fish, wooden utensils and iron pots. The people, contrary to Drinian's grim expectation, looked prosperous; well-fed women in bright gowns chatted, skipping sideways to avoid a flock of geese being driven from the north of the town. Dominating the farther side was a pink brick and grey stone structure fronted with ornate iron gates. "The Duke's Palace," Dar hissed. "And he's home, if the pennants flying are any guide! The price of everything and the value o' naught, that's what Rairton knows, all his wisest subjects say so! Ah! Master Raimon!"

"My Lord of Westerwood, always an honour, Sir!" Though the greeting was obsequious, the speaker, a rotund, rosy-cheeked man barely taller than Drinian himself, gleamed with unrepentant good humour. "And my Lord of Etinsmere, bid you welcome to our poor island! This must be the Narnian gentleman you bring me. Looks a sturdy fellow – apart from the arm of course, but we shall soon see that right. Great pity, the troubles in Narnia; wife misses the Glasswater lace, and your Etinsmere velvet of course. Miss the cabbages more, myself."

"Cabbages?" Drinian shared a look of wonder with his servant.

"Aye, m'Lord; we've meat a-plenty, but our soil's only use is pasture." Raimon ducked his brown head, revealing a circular bald patch at the crown, carefully combed over with a few long, limp strands. "Cabbages, carrots, corn and potatoes… your miserable Miraz has stopped our merchants trading, and for that, we who depend on our foreign trade shan't…"

Drinian assumed Uncle must have deliberately stepped on the garrulous fellow's foot. "But of course, he's crimes far worse than offending trade on his conscience," Raimon finished hurriedly, leading them into the porch of his gaudily decorated cloth emporium at the north west corner, where three stools were set before the large window display. Jostain took station behind the one Drinian settled on, warily surveying the Galmians going about their business. His posture only softened, as far as the boy could tell, when a pretty girl with merry brown eyes, her shawl slipping to reveal a softly rounded shoulder, smiled his way.

"When the contemptible tyrant falls, we shall add offences against the mercantile world to the charges against him," Dar murmured wryly. "Always assuming the villain's not torn to shreds by an enraged populace first!"

"Hardly likely the commons will rise, with their lords falling one after another." With a snap of the fingers Raimon summoned a sleek, black-haired girl from the shop's murky interior bearing a tray and four tall glasses. "Our wine's a tad _raw _but there's an ample supply – you'll take a drop, my Lord Drinian? You'll not have heard the fate of the Brothers Beaversdam yet, I'll wager?"

"Lund and Marton?" Big and shaggy as their friend Arlian but not a tenth as vocal, how could they, mild joint masters of a minor province, challenge Miraz's rule? "Are they harmed?"

"Locked away in a tower; insanity runs in the blood, so the rumour goes. One went for t'other with a meat cleaver." Raimon harrumphed into his drink. "A likely story, that's what folk who did business at Beaversdam say!"

"By the Conqueror's bloodied Sword!" Jostain swore, one hand wavering in vague apology. "Devoted to each other, them two. That whoreso – washerwoman's brat! As if callin' old Irina a madwoman weren't enough!"

"_Irina_?" Drinian felt the name creak from his throat. Jostain stared fixedly at a moss-filled crack between paving slabs. "What has he done to her?"

"M'lady begged me not to tell you, Sir," he mumbled. "Said she didn't want you distressed any more'n needful."

"Has he locked Irina in a tower?" But for his nurse's interference, he would have rushed into Katharina's room and been slaughtered with her. Where once he might have almost wished for that fate, Drinian prided himself on being stronger now. He had to live. He had too many offences to avenge, and if Irina were harmed, then Miraz had added another to the list. "Tell me!"

They all goggled at the implacable command in his words. "Best make a clean breast of it, Jostain," Uncle boomed, his forced jollity setting Drinian's teeth on edge. "I know from long experience, an Etinsmere will not be denied when _that_ tone comes out!"

"Sopespian an' Glozelle took her a week after you fled. You'll not tell my Lady I betrayed her?" Too late to retract if he refused, Drinian considered, giving his pledge with a curt nod. "Irina screamed an' kicked – took a chunk out o' Sopespian's hand I fancy – swearin' they were the damned murderers, and them an' their master would rot in salt water for their sins. We tried to stop them, m'Lord: but you never saw such an armed troop, all in steel, an' all for one feeble old dame that wouldn't let her 'ands be bound! Ellena took a smack in the face, an' old Peridan's leg got broke in the confusion, and right sorry I am to be tellin' you all this, Sir, for there's naught can be done about it while that scoundrel lives, an' I know you'll take our troubles to heart…"

His doting nursemaid incarcerated. Faithful retainers assaulted. And he sat cradling a glass of rough wine in the weak Galmian sunshine: penniless, powerless to protect them. What kind of Narnian Lord had he become?

"Guilt corrodes the innards, my boy; don't allow it to taint you." Uncle, he realised, understood exactly what made him scowl; a Lord of Archenland recognising only too well how he would feel in a Narnian's position. "So, the lady identified her master's killers, did she? Small wonder they feel themselves safer with her locked away! What's the commotion, Raimon?"

"The Ducal family!" Clapping his slick palms together, the merchant knocked over his chair in his haste to rise, throwing himself forward toward an enclosed carriage that rattled across the square accompanied by a cheering, jostling throng. In spite of himself, Drinian craned to peer at the occupants as they jolted by.

A tall, spare man in black and white; an eagle's beak of a nose and deepset eyes that did not flicker on the excited faces of the owner's capering subjects. At his side, in peacock splendour, a bejewelled woman cursed with flattish, regular features unmarked by any trace of character or distinction, making the Duchess of Galma unfortunately forgettable the instant she passed from one's sight.

Nobody, however, would forget the face of the small girl bouncing on her lap. Her pale face smothered in brown marks, the child wore vibrant green silks that matched her eye colour and the vivacious smile that would ordinarily have dominated a pleasing face.

"They'd marry Caspian to a freckled squinter?" Drinian wondered, earning a jab in the ribs for his honesty. The girl's gaze appeared to jerk at random, the left eye skewed to peer permanently away from the place her fat little finger pointed. "Most unfortunate for her," he added hurriedly, reminded by the glares attracted that his clear, crisp accents carried. His uncle grinned.

"Those sharp Etinsmere vowels travel well; be useful to you aboard ship!" he chortled, enjoying the boy's discomfort. "Now, Raimon, we have business to attend, stroll around town a little, Drinian, you'll see Galamaia is more congenial on closer acquaintance! Jostain, you'll ensure your master finds no mischief until luncheon? Afterward we'll ride for Raimon's estates for the night; and yes, Drinian, we shall be back afloat by dinnertime tomorrow. Did not the Captain pledge to delay running the new rig until Your Lordship was aboard to assist?"


	20. Chapter 19

_**NINETEEN**_

His hands still felt leathery and blistered when he rode beneath the gatehouse of Westerwood a week later, although the muscles of his upper arms had finally ceased to burn. "Make a topman of you yet," the old Admiral roared, surrendering his sweating mount to Ostin. "Wife! Katharina, do you not come running to greet your sailor nowadays? Lion counfound 'em, where are the women, eh?"

"M'Lady's on her way, Sir." Ostin's beady gaze slid beyond his master, snagged on Drinian's and shifted quickly away. "We had no word from Barwell – hardly expected to see you home so soon…"

"Drinian, come upstairs directly." Her eyes were sunken, he realised, as if she had been weeping. Aunt wore none of her jewels, and her long grey hair was dragged simply back from her face, not twisted and pinned in its usual severe style. "Your mother has been asking for you."

For an awful instant he lost all power in his legs. "Is she ill?" he croaked, his eyes drawn to the bloodied cloth in her hands. Katharina Westerwood bit hard into her lip.

"She is much recovered, my dear; Doctor Kol has been at her side for two nights without sleeping, but her fever is broken, and she has taken a little broth today." She reached for his hand, the gentle squeeze cracking his frozen heart in two. For Aunt to be tender, something must be very wrong.

Caught between familiarly conflicting urges – run and hide against face what can't be ignored, he thought – Drinian allowed himself to be guided through the servants' corridors and up two flights of narrow stairs toward the bedchamber where, like a rag doll, Elizabetha of Etinsmere lay with folded hands and closed eyes. He licked his dry lips, acknowledging the physician's bob of greeting with a nod. "Mamma?"

Sooty eyelashes fluttered. Bloodless lips turned upward into a shadow of her formerly merry smile. "I'm not so frail as I seem, dearest," her reedy voice pledged. "Katharina – have you been frightening the child?"

"Ignorance is a sin in a man of rank, as you've said many times yourself, my dear." She released his hand, letting him scamper to kneel at the bedside, dark eyes enormous in a face almost as pale as hers. "Your mother has been very ill, Drinian; you're not a fool, for all your inattention in lessons, you can judge the case for yourself. But the worst is past, as long as she is _sensible_, eats her broth and remains in bed."

"In your grandmother's absence, Aunt has played the mother to me." The two women smiled at each other with greater fondness than he had ever seen before. "But you know I _loathe_ weak gruel. Your father said it thins the blood."

"The physicians say otherwise." Aunt withdrew, gesturing to the cringing physician to follow. "Elizabetha…"

"Let him stay, Katharina; I must hear that Jostain is settled. Have you told him…"

Pursing her lips, the older woman gave a jerk of the head in demurral. "Then ignorance is not always a sin." Patting the side of her bed, Elizabetha shifted cautiously, the strain of not wincing plain in her eyes. "The war in the North is over, Drinian: Tamarin and his nephew Maric are dead – aye, all our Passarid neighbours gone. The same day Tamarin fell a truce was proclaimed; the Giants pledged to retreat beyond Etinsmoor, Narnia waives all demand for tribute… _an honourable accord between two noble contestants_, so the decree declares."

"He sent the kingdom to war to remove one family, and he's too great a fool even to disguise it." He ought to have felt anger: rage on behalf of the sons left fatherless by a needless conflict, contempt for the weak usurper so desperate to destroy his rivals he would risk bringing ruin on a whole nation. But all Drinian could feel was a tiredness that seeped into his marrow. He expected nothing better of Miraz. "What did Narnia do, Mamma, to deserve _him_?"

"What did His Majesty, or your father, or Terian, Tolian and Tamarin do, save disparage the King's preening poltroon of a brother as he deserved?" She stroked the dampness he didn't feel from his smooth cheek in a forlorn acknowledgement of his harshly won maturity. "There will be no more deaths among the men of the North he sent to fight his meaningless war: and so few good men remain even such a dolt as Miraz must feel himself secure! Did you hear in Galma about the Brothers of Beaversdam?"

"Aye." Through long nights in his hammock on the voyage home he had planned to challenge her silence about Irina's fate, but seeing her so fragile his courage failed. "Can I fetch you any thing? Water, or more soup?"

"Thank you, but your aunt has quite filled me with gruel. Will you help me sit up?"

He dared not grasp her shoulders too tightly as they shuffled her into a seated position against a stack of pillows, afraid her fine bones might snap. "Is Jostain's new master a kind man?" she demanded, giving a tug that toppled him fully onto the mattress beside her. "Your uncle grumbles his estate's small, and the farmland wretched, but he promised me our friend will suffer no ill-treatment."

"He seemed kind – and his wife couldn't have made us more welcome." He had been embarrassed by her effusions, but for Jostain's sake he had bitten his tongue. "Their lands are poor compared with Uncle's – or Etinsmere's of course – but there's ample work for him, a cottage in the fields, and all the servants are well fed and respectable. Raimon says he'll teach him business, if Jostain proves as clever as I say."

"I am glad." Her heavy eyes looked brighter, he considered, launching into an energetic recitation of his recent adventures at Galamaia.

Tiptoeing down the corridor an hour later, the mistress of Westerwood was cheered by the sound of uproarious laughter rolling from her sister-in-law's room. The house, startled as she was to find herself conceding it, had been much too quiet with both Dar _and_ Drinian away.

* * *

It was a month before the patient was well enough to leave her room, and Drinian's birthday tea was a meagre affair, the rich cakes and cream scones being removed lest the mere sight of them upset her delicate stomach. The Westerwoods accepted an invitation to Anvard, but left their relations quiet at home: the lady was too susceptible to travel in icy conditions, and the young gentleman adamant in his refusal to abandon her.

Still, the warmer weather brought improvement enough for Elizabetha to amble through the fields on a sedate cob, laughing at her son's reckless determination to set his gelding at every obstacle he could find. "You have a good seat, for a _tar_," she chuckled, reaching out to give his windblown hair a fond pull. "If you don't break every bone in falls between now and your eleventh birthday, you may do credit to my instruction as an adult."

Drinian stuck out his lower lip, let go the reins and squared his shoulders, dropping his voice to a fair imitation of his father's gruff rumble. "I should prefer to see the country from the deck of a galleon, if it be all the same to your Ladyship!"

Her shriek of laughter made a passing farm hand stop and stare. "We should turn back," she said, giving the astonished man a charming smile. "If we gallop, we may _just_ reach Westerwood before the rain."

The words were barely out before the first heavy droplets sploshed against his upturned face. "Or perhaps not," she added, spurring her mount into a canter. Hunching his shoulders, Drinian followed suit, his mount's longer stride easily outstretching her stockier animal. By the time they reached the stable yard, they were both laughing and thoroughly drenched.


	21. Chapter 20

_**TWENTY**_

She lay in the middle of the big white bed, her breathing too shallow to stir the thin sheet over her chest. Drinian cradled her hand in both of his, lost to the murmurs of his companions, standing withdrawn at the shuttered window. Hope had gone. She had been the first to say it.

Since that moment, not even Uncle Dar had ventured into the limited range of his vision, aware of his impotence in the face of mortal grief. The doctor had been dismissed, at her instruction. The servants were confined to their own quarters. The silence, though he welcomed its deadness, oppressed him like a leaden weight.

The fingers which had been limp against his palm twitched. "Mamma?"

She tried to smile, and her bravery broke his heart afresh. "Dearest child," she murmured, returning the light pressure of his fingers with her own. "Be strong for Etinsmere, and be the man your father sought to be. Don't weep for me! I shall watch you grow from a better place."

He ached to cry but his eyes were itchy, painfully dry. His lungs were tight, as if all the breath had been slowly squeezed from their depths. "I will be good, Mamma."

"I don't doubt it." Speaking hurt, but he knew her too well to urge her stop. "Obey your aunt and uncle, and serve King Nain well. He has been good to us. Only – never forget. Once a Lord of Narnia, always a Lord of Narnia."

A round pebble formed in his throat to trap his attempted response. He nodded instead.

She managed a long, shuddering breath. "You must go home as soon as Miraz falls– and fall he must, no evil lasts for ever. Promise me…"

Coughing racked her. Gently he dabbed the yellow mess that spilled between her lips away, sliding a long arm around her shoulders to raise her, light as a child, into a supporting hold.

"I _will_ find Kathi." How he was to set about it was a concern for another time. Drinian knew what distressed his mother most: dying while her daughter's remains rotted abandoned in a pit. And though it might prove beyond the ingenuity of armies, he would promise any thing to soothe her into her final sleep.

"And bring me home to lie beside her?"

He could answer only with a shaky nod. Her eyes, opaque with exhaustion and pain, almost brightened for the final time.

"You are a good boy, Drinian. Remember that your Papa and I were_ always_ proud of you."

"I was never more than you made me." Careful not to jolt her, he stretched to place a feathery kiss against her cold brow. With a sigh and a half-smile Elizabetha, Daughter of Greenglade and Dowager Lady of Etinsmere, expelled her last soft breath.

He knew it instantly; felt the muscles cramped for days in fever's grip fall slack. Dropping his chin into her loose black hair, he gathered her up into a desperate embrace, the tears that had refused to fall beginning to spill silently into the silky strands.

The whole weight of Westerwood had sunk down upon his shoulders. Inside his chest, a spring was winding tight, dragging his innards into a hard, cold coil. Beyond the narrow limit of the bed was an endless empty expanse.

He could not face an eternity without her. He didn't want to be completely alone.

He knew he had promised to be strong; to do her credit. One day, he would.

Not today, with her corpse still warm in his arms, with Aunt and Uncle crooning nonsense across a vast chasm of despair. Perhaps when his whole being did not scream silently for one more smile or kindly word to make him feel invincible. _Then_ he would be the Lord of Etinsmere she wanted him to be.

But not before.

* * *

They laid her poor remains beneath a cherry tree at the southernmost tip of the Westerwood garden; out of sight of the house and concealed from the curious by open fields and a screen of tall evergreens. It was a temporary resting place, Drinian assured anyone bold enough to question. Her bones would lie in Narnian soil some day, beside her lord's and their murdered child's. He owed her that, and so much more besides.

Yet Narnia had never seemed more distant. If he did go back there, it would be alone. Henceforward, every thing would be alone.

He tried not to look beyond the next day; even the next hour's lesson, or the next meal. To ponder a year, still less a lifetime, with no Mamma was more than he could bear.

Then the visits began. Uncle Dar's Cousin Marna, minced into the parlour with her long nose lifted as if everything before her smelled of the sewers, sitting primly on the edge of the chair Mamma used to use, muttering platitudes in a reedy whistle of a voice. Even King Nain rode from Anvard, bringing half his household in his wake.

It was, Aunt told him grandly, a singular condescension. Had he not been robed in the deepest mourning, a black velvet tunic and a short mantle of the same fabric edged with dark grey fur, he would probably have had his ears boxed for muttering he would sooner not be condescended to, thank you very much.

Deep down, he admitted he probably deserved a beating. Aunt's hand had been on his shoulder at the time, and that was as near a demonstration of affectionate support as he supposed she could make.

They sat in the Main Parlour, its windows still shuttered to proclaim the house one of grief. The King's booted feet drummed against the flagstones as he lounged in the lady of the manor's comfortable chair, directly facing the high-backed wing chair placed for his young host. An outsider would have wondered, it seemed to Drinian, which of the pair was the more uncomfortable.

"Your Lordship must take comfort in the knowledge your unhappy mother suffers no more," Nain volunteered, peering over the horn rims of his glasses to assess the reception for his trite words. Drinian mustered a smile.

"Aye, Sire," he agreed. There didn't seem to be much else he could say.

"And she need not grieve for her poor country." The King pinched the bridge of his nose, arresting the slide of spectacles down its aquiline length. "I – ahem! It would seem I'm destined to be the bearer of ill tidings each time we meet, young man."

_What in the Lion's name now_? he wondered, panic jolting a thought Aunt would certainly deem unbecoming through his brain. "Your Majesty has more news of Narnia?"

"Indirectly, aye." Nain shuffled, unable to meet his troubled stare. "Via Galamaia, in fact. A ship and crew was hired there three weeks ago, we understand, to convey seven bold Lords of Narnia into uncharted ocean beyond the Lone Islands. Their names…."

"If Your Majesty will allow me." A Galmian vessel and crew to carry Narnia on such an adventure? His father would be incandescent at such humiliation. "The Lords Octesian, Rhoop, Mavramorn, Argoz, Revelian, Bern and – and…"

"Restimar, my Lord." Auburn eyebrows arched as the names dripped from his tongue. "The last, I dare say, of the late King's allies, they've chosen a chancy voyage in waters unknown above probable murder at the hands of the new regime. Your father would be proud of their valour."

"And sickened they choose a foreign-built vessel above those _he_ planned for Narnia." His blood raced at the prospect of such an adventure, but aboard a hired Galmian ship, with an unknown crew… what honour was there in such gadding about for Narnia?

"The Protector's government dispensed with your father's naval schemes; a short-sighted policy I'll wager you set right one day. Oh my nephew is honoured as Crown Prince, his name still cried in formal proclamation: their Lordships' quest is blessed in his name, as son of their dead master. With a Caspian once more enthroned, Etinsmere _will_ rise again. Why, with the experience you'll garner in _Our_ service – your aunt concedes it will be good for you to join the fleet, escape the cloying atmosphere of this house of ancients, as she calls it – I fancy you shall be Lord Admiral of the Kingdom a week after his coronation!"

"Your Majesty is gracious." He parroted the needful response, mindful of the leaden hopelessness in his heart. Miraz held all the power he had craved; the last of his opponents had abandoned hope and fled over sea. His last connections with home, tenuous as they were, had been broken.

The coronation of King Caspian the Tenth might be a hundred years away.

**Author's Note: A double helping today. I've found this chapter especially really tough to write. Please do let me know what you think!**


	22. Chapter 21

_**TWENTY ONE**_

At least he had a promise of freedom to cling to, Drinian reminded himself twice a week at least. Without Mamma's mischievous company Westerwood seemed ever more a house of the aged: or a prison. He attended his lessons with a diligence that caused more alarm than satisfaction; was courteous to his dancing master and obedient to his guardians' lightest word.

It was unnatural, the household whispered. Even Aunt was heard to declare she missed her nephew's infuriating insolence. The sooner a berth could be secured aboard a ship – any ship – of the Archenlandish fleet, the greater his chance, Drinian concluded, of heaving himself out of the dark, gloomy rut into which he had fallen.

Etiquette hardly helped. For three months he was required to isolate himself from court life, and for the first time he recognised how much his visits to Corin and Anelia at Anvard had cheered him. Caspian, Ninian and the others in Narnia – the Glasswater sisters, Marton Beaversdam's son Lund, Ailsa, daughter of Erimon, the executed lord of the Southern March – they were fading memories now, pushed away with a child's relentless practicality.

_They_ were prisoners, after all, their estates managed by the Protector's cronies, guarded and spied on in the name of their preservation. His freedom might be restricted, but it was not, Drinian promised himself on wild gallops around the quiet countryside, illusory.

His liberty increased dramatically with an invitation, in the name of the royal children, to join the midsummer festivities at Anvard.

The castle was crowded with every noble family in Archenland, and most, (Anelia maintained) of its entertainers when they arrived, late in the afternoon and covered in dust. More than anything, Drinian wanted a drink, a wash and a few moments to accustom himself to society again.

One look across the drawbridge suggested his basic needs would have to wait. Jugglers on stilts greeted the Westerwood party, passing them on to tumblers in the courtyard and fiddlers in the Entrance Hall. The Princess raced to welcome them, her pale oval face flushed pink with excitement. "Thank the Lion there's _someone _our own age come!" she trilled, hauling him by the hand from his elderly relations with no more than a brief reverence their way. "Corin's saved some of the custards and cakes for you; Father's lords are long-lived, all their heirs are grown-up, and their grandchildren are babies! Come, hurry, before the Lord Chamberlain can see us! We're to watch the fireworks from Father's dais tonight; he says we may stay up until midnight!"

"Doubt we'll keep our eyes open so long, unless the rockets are especially noisy," he growled. She chortled.

"Oh, they will be. Father's very fond of fireworks."

"Must be a royal thing. King Caspian was the same. Your Highness."

"Plaguey formality! We shan't be disturbed here, Drinian, so for the love of the Lion, use my name!"

"As Your Highness wishes." It was a joke he had shared with the gangling lad's cousin and Corin, bouncing about the Nursery Suite door, snapped the bait as readily as Caspian ever had. Anelia shoved them both forcibly inside.

"Boys!" she tutted. "Oh, don't worry about paying respects to Father, Drinian; he knows you have been hidden from society a while, and he'd not hurl you back in friendless!"

He blinked against the emotion stirred by a kindly gesture that only emphasised the bitterness of his loss. "Is that lemonade?" he asked, grasping for any trivial escape. "I'm parched!"

"Allow me." Anelia sloshed a generous measure into a handy red glass goblet, passing it to him before pouring a second for herself. "Oh, you'd like some too, Brother? You have longer arms than I – stretch over and I'll pour some."

"Don't make an effort to move on my account," Corin grumbled, catching his toe on the table's foot as he reached her way. "Ow!" he yelped, his agitated hopping sending drops of liquid like rain spraying from his cup. "I do wish I wasn't such a damned oaf!"

"As I wish you were a better-tempered one." King Nain, an oversized wasp in his yellow and black striped doublet, leaned against the door frame with folded arms, smiling at his horrified heir. "Keep such language in the nursery, lad, lest your future subjects learn to dread your accession."

"I fancy they already do, Sir." Corin snorted, but the Princess had never in Drinian's sight been abashed by offending her future sovereign. "Imagine the coronation! Corin shan't manage the steps to his throne without falling over!"

"Just because _you_ think you should make a better king than I…"

"Any bickering on these lines and you'll both be watching the fireworks from your rooms," barked Nain. Identical pouts forming, the twins fell resentfully silent.

"My Lord Drinian, We are glad to see you looking well." Pale, Drinian knew; and thinner, as much from a growth spurt, perhaps, as grief. "If you've had time to refresh yourself from your journey, will you come with Us to the Great Hall? The festivities are about to commence with a great procession: Corin and Anelia, I expect you to take your places with discretion: any assaults against your brother's ankles, young lady, will result in no supper and _no_ dancing. Do I make myself fully understood?"

* * *

The gardens around Anvard sparkled, with lanterns strung along the castle walls and between trees garlanded with flowers turning the gentle countryside into a veritable fairytale with dusk's descent. Cloaks and mantles cast aside as unnecessary on a balmy night, the castle's occupants spilled onto the lawns, chattering and laughing. Linking arms with the royal children, Drinian skittered along the gravel path leading toward a temporary stage from which the King and a chosen few would enjoy a gigantic firework display.

Everyone had eaten a huge banquet; Anelia, rubbing her tummy, was not the only person to be feeling queasy, and Drinian acknowledged to himself he had not eaten so heartily in months. They had danced all afternoon, pausing only to eat and drink again, and he suspected it was the thick, sugared mead consumed more than the cakes, ices and sweetmeats that made his head feel light and his belly heavy. Slumping into a seat between his friends, he shielded his eyes from the dancing light of the multi-coloured lamps and waited for the show to begin.

"It's going to be ghastly noisy," Corin announced at the top of his voice. "Just look at those rockets! Father! Is it starting soon?"

"Aye, it will be-"

The end of the King's sentence was lost under the whistle and crack of the first explosion. Corin whooped with delight, waving madly at a million sparks of silver light scattered overhead. "One would think him three, not eleven," Anelia cackled, jumping halfway off the dais as another firecracker erupted right above them. "Ow! We shall all be deaf by the end of this!"

The lanterns were soon irrelevant, the sky brightened by a myriad of coloured explosions. Laughing, pointing and cheering, the crowd was too much engrossed to observe the arrival of a small figure in a long black robe who wormed his way through the throng to the steps of the throne. Not even Anelia, seated at his left hand, noticed her father rise and, frowning, descend with head bowed to hear the newcomer's urgent muttering.

When he turned back to his guests the King's cheerfulness had vanished. He clambered up the three small steps as if it hurt to lift his own slight weight. "My Lord, a moment?" he hissed against Drinian's ringing ear. "Better you hear this - this _outrage _privately, before his villainy is declared before the entire kingdom!"

"Sire?" A dozen panicked speculations clashed in his brain, making him unsteady as he rose, accepting the arm offered. He knew the messenger: Rilian of Pond's Valley _again_, the wings of black hair that fell across his cheekbones insufficient to obscure the smug, slack grin across his lean face. Any news from Narnia would be ill: he expected that. Tidings brought by a traitor's lackey, he thought viciously, digging a toe into the softness of the turf, could only be worse.

Nain said nothing until they were enveloped in shadow from the castle walls. "In the Lion's Name I'd as lief be in my tomb as reciting this news," he grated. "But there's naught for it. A week ago Prince Miraz was crowned King of Narnia at - so we are asked to believe – the urgent plea of his oppressed people, and the ardent recommendation of a united Great Council. I am sorry, Drinian: that murderous wretch is your country's master and my nephew's keeper, buttressed by all the authority of the Crown. Aye, rest back against the wall; I know these tidings are the worst you could hear."

"But not the least expected." In the back of his mind he heard a metallic clang, the gates of his homeland banging shut against him. "To murder so many…. Miraz aimed for the crown from the start!"

"Aye." Nain was relieved: had he expected a child's tantrum? "My nephew is named Heir Apparent, being nearest in blood to the usurper."

"The better to hold him prisoner, Sire?" Narnia was closed to him as long as Miraz lived, Drinian had long ago accepted that, but the finality of this news cut and he felt acutely for his dispossessed friend. "Lion be thanked Mamma never suffered this," he murmured, blinking back the tears that would insist on filling his eyes. "Who supported him at the crowning, Sire? What do the people say? Oh!"

He smacked himself resoundingly on the head. "Of course, if they marched through the streets of Beruna calling him traitor Miraz would never confess it! Sopespian, Glozelle, Solivar and the rest, they'll grow fat on the rewards he gives them: how many estates and honours does he have to buy loyalty with now? I – with Your Majesty's permission I'll retire to my room. I've no wish to hear that damnable traitor crow of his paymaster's victory!"

"Of course; I'll send your aunt to you."

"I – thank you, Sire." Though he often forgot it, Aunt was Narnian too, and while the last thing he wanted to endure was her frozen disapproval of events, he loved her enough to spare her the shame of witnessing a hateful proclamation. "May I see…"

"A copy of the declaration will be made for your perusal, my Lord." Nain squeezed his arm, grateful, Drinian guessed, that painful _scenes_ had been avoided. "You've wit beyond your years, as I've noted many times. The murderer of so many good men needs more than a regent's authority for his shield; I fancy you judge the rogue rightly, this was his aim from the first day."

The best he could manage was a curt nod. With another consoling press of the arm, Nain let him go, knees locked against the tremors Drinian could feel starting deep in his gut. A pair of narrowed eyes bored into him; those of the villain's crony he supposed, watching for a glimmer of weakness in Tirian's heir. He called his father's broad, strong face to mind, clinging to the blurred image.

No Etinsmere would show frailty before a knave – still less a knave's craven servant! Keeping his head high and his shoulders squared, he reached the haven of his small guest chamber before the shudders convulsed him.

"There's naught else for it, Drinian," he muttered into a downy pillow. "Find a berth in the fleet as soon as you're able! The whole world is open to you: save the place you _want_ to see."

He could weep, he found, no more: not for himself, or Caspian; not even for Narnia. Though the finality of his exile weighed like a galleon's great hull on his shoulders, the very burden of it had crushed the last sorrow and resentment from his heart. A Lord of Narnia he might always be, but there was neither profit nor honour in the title now. "Better a common sailor in a good King's fleet than a cowed prisoner at Etinsmere!"


	23. Chapter 22

Author's Note: Back during a brief recess from Wimbledon tennis and the world cup football (soccer). Henceforth weeks and months may slip by without being described, otherwise Drinian's experiences at sea will take longer to write than to live. Thanks again to those who have followed this far!

_**TWENTY TWO**_

"Remember, Drinian, you may be a child, but you are an officer of the King's Fleet now." Dar banged his nephew heartily on the shoulder, surreptitiously checking the sturdiness of the leather jerkin he wore. "_Tiger_ is the pride o' the fleet, and though he's an odd fellow, Kolin is a worthy captain. Watch him well, never say more than "Aye, Sir!" however you dislike his orders, and let me hear good reports when you return from your first cruise!"

"Remember to wear your waxed cloak in storms, and do _not_ return to Westerwood with a repertoire of curses to match your uncle's," Aunt Katharina continued, unable to repress a smile at his fidgeting impatience. Behind him, the gangway of the great galleon stood waiting; a tall officer and a pair of idlers peered from the deck, spinning away to look busy whenever someone glanced their way. "Very well, go aboard! Your uncle will see your land clothes stored at the Barwell house. Use it as your own when you return to land."

"Thank you." Impulsively he stretched the little way needful to kiss her powdered cheek, startled that she responded with a bashful hug. "For everything."

"You_ are_ my brother's son, and too like him for your own good." She set him at arm's length, surveying his hardy sailor's attire of wool hose, coarse shirt and dull leather jerkin with a wistful smile. "And I know there's naught to hold you to the land a day longer! You've His Majesty's blessing with your uncle's and mine, so hurry along, present yourself to your Captain, and do Narnia more credit than her present master does!"

"Shan't be difficult so long as I'm honest," he grunted, snapping a smart salute. With his carefully packed canvas sack of possessions tossed over his shoulder he strode up the gangplank toward the smirking officer. "Drinian Etinsmere, reporting for the King's service," he stated, annoyed with the defiance he couldn't help leaking into the words. The hatchet-faced mariner cocked his head, considered for a moment and then broke into an unexpectedly merry grin.

"Marix, the boson. Welcome aboard, lad. That all you're stowing below?"

"A ship's boy dare not expect much space." He could feel the roll of water beneath the keel, and suddenly the excitement he had been holding in check surged. Marix dragged the pack from him.

"You, Darin! Take the young gent's bag below! Cap'n wants to see you directly, and we're to sail on tomorrow's dawn tide. Been to sea a bit before, I hear?"

"Yes, Sir." Instinct brought words tripping to his tongue, but nerves, for a novelty, stopped them. Uncle's endorsement of Captain Kolin had not been overwhelming. Drinian linked his hands behind his back, willing himself to breathe deeply as he clambered up the poop ladder in the boson's wake.

The Captain was awaiting them in his cabin: a square box unmarked with any trace of its occupier's personality, it reminded Drinian more of a prisoner's cell than a seagoing home. "Thank you, Marix," Kolin drawled, materialising from the corner in response to his crewman's cheerful call. "You may wait outside. Come here, boy: you are the Lord Dar's nephew, I understand?"

"Yes, Captain." There was something oddly familiar about the way the man's mouth drooped to the left, but Drinian was willing to swear he had never seen Captain Kolin in his life. Of middling height and build, his sandy hair drooping limply over his ears, the man would have been unprepossessing had it not been for the carapace of steely self-certainty that shrouded him.

"By marriage?"

"Yes, Sir." Fear receded under irritation. Drinian recalled peering through glass at insects in much the same way Captain Kolin scrutinised him. Shan't do it again if this is how the poor creatures feel, he decided.

"Hm." For several seconds the Captain watched him struggle against the urge to fidget or blush under his minute attention. "Etinsmere; a title more than a family name, is it?"

"We use it as both, Captain: I am Lord of Etinsmere."

"Narnian nobility, eh? Proud of it, are we?"

"I was not schooled to be ashamed of my ancestry, Sir." Wilfully disregarding every thing Papa and Uncle had ever taught him, Drinian met his commanding officer's stare direct. "However, my title is of little service to me in exile. I'd sooner earn my pay as a seaman than crawl with a beggar's bowl to Anvard!"

"Bold for your years, boy. How old are you?"

"Eleven, Captain." _Count to ten,_ Aunt had often chided when his temper had begun to fray. Drinian was past twenty before Kolin harrumphed in reply.

"There are no favours granted to _birth_ aboard my ship, Etinsmere. You may be a_ Narnian_ _lord_, but as captain I expect to be _king _aboard. You will work under the Boson's direct instruction, and should he be dissatisfied, you will smart for it at my hand. Understood?"

"Aye, Captain." He waited for the curt nod of dismissal, forcing himself to give a brisk salute before turning on his heel and stalking out. The instant the cabin door had swung shut, he whistled.

"Cap'n's not fond o' nobilities, lad, but don't take it to heart." Marix leaned against the bulkhead, openly laughing at his embarrassment. "'Spect he gave you a rare roasting, eh? Let the Old Man have his sport, that's my advice – not often he gets to vent spleen on a proper _gentleman_."

"So he takes against my rank, not my accent?" That was more of a relief than he cared to admit. Marix shrugged, guiding him down the main ladder into the bowel of the ship, where hammocks were tucked up against the outer wall of the hull, small sacks of possessions hung on hooks beneath them. At the very stern of the ship, Drinian's belongings – sextant, telescope, waterproofed cloak and a few changes of clothes – had been stowed tidily away.

"With half the fleet crewed by the press gang, we can hardly turn away a volunteer, even if he be a stranger. You'll get used to the Captain; aye, more to the point he'll get used to you! My first ship was under your uncle's command, you know."

"Seems half the fleet served Uncle at some time." Ridiculously, he felt better for it. Marix was willing to give him his chance, accent and birthright notwithstanding. He doubted the Captain would be so forbearing.

Well, no Etinsmere had ever shirked a challenge; if mistakes were to be punished unduly, he would have to make sure they were not made at all.

"Cap'n Kolin served under him too."

"Uncle never mentioned that!" Straightening abruptly, his head connected hard with a broad deck timber. "By the Lion, I must have grown again!"

"You'll get used to it; now come and meet your shipmates." Marix thumped him on the back. A sailor's gesture? The men of his family, Drinian mused, often used it, mariners all.

"It's blessed painful. Must remember not to do it myself," he mumbled, careful to half-close his eyes as he traipsed up to the main deck in Marix's wake. Protected from the harshness of sudden daylight, he was able to observe his new home more closely while the boson summoned a dozen curious seamen for introductions, trusting his excellent memory to imprint all their names.

Clean and bright, _Tiger_ screamed of a perfectionist captain and a well-trained crew. While he muttered the appropriate pleasantries, Drinian tried the puzzle's pieces in his mind, searching for a fit. A weatherly vessel and a cheerful crew spoke of a captain as confident as Kolin tried to appear. Why, then, was the man so disturbed by the arrival of a foreign schoolboy whose exalted heritage was about as valuable as a barrel of stale rum?


	24. Chapter 23

_**TWENTY THREE**_

He quickly stopped worrying about Kolin's implacable contempt, caught up in the frenzied business of preparing a galleon for sea. There were stores to load; water butts to roll ashore and refill at the well in the town square; and wooding parties to send out into the country, coming back laden with baskets full of twigs as the sun set. Tramping around the woods, dodging rain showers and stopping every second step to snap up suitably dry tinder had not been foremost in his mind, Drinian conceded, when imagining his naval career, but at least he was granted ample time to learn the names and dispositions of his shipmates.

The trusted ones, at least.

His trip to the well was escorted by a phalanx of archers, arrows set on their strings as they shepherded eight crewmen rolling barrels. "'S all in our honour, that," muttered Darin, red-eyed and flabby of face. "An' there's the scurvy den o' villainy we was in the gutter outside when they found us!"

"Aye, and who was it spent the last of our coin at gaming?" his cousin, Sarin muttered, aiming a swift kick at Darin's exposed ankle. "Small chance we have of escapin' today: every one o' those arrows has my name carved in its shaft!"

"Less chatter and more heavin' on that pump handle, you drunken dog!" If he had been less charitable, Drinian would have been sure the Mate was enjoying the chance to bawl curses at the recalcitrant duo. He dragged the heavy pump arm down, skipping back to avoid the water splashing over his bucket's side. "Aye, an' don't go sloshing half that water into the street, boy! The loss will come from your ration – not mine!"

"What, you'll take water instead o' rum, Topasio?" Brawny, hook-nosed Wat, his long dark hair held back from a bronzed brow with a tattered strip of grey cloth, flicked a few drops from the barrel he was filling at the smaller man. "More for the rest of us, then! You're not a drinker yet, Drinian?"

"Doubt I ever shall be where rum is concerned." He shuddered every time he smelled the potent spirit, reminded of its harsh taste the last night at Etinsmere. "If the Captain authorises you to take it, Wat, you're welcome to my daily ration."

"More likely keep it to hisself." The offer won him a genial cuffing and, he suspected, more goodwill than all his eagerness to assist in any menial task. A few nights' huddled in his corner had proven Uncle Dar right on that point: rum as much as fear of the lash kept the former landsmen of the _Tiger_ docile as their commander could wish. Wat, a mariner of ten years' standing, was more susceptible than most.

* * *

On the tenth day after joining he set his chest to one of the capstan's bars and leaned with all his slight weight against it, marching in time with seven companions around the hub, step by slow, painful step until he could feel the heavy chain tug and the giant anchor pull free of the harbour's cloying mud. With Topasio beating time against the bulwark rail, a dozen hoarse voices raised in spitting out a song that emerged more as a series of grunts than a recognisable tune. Drinian was thankful he didn't know it; it took all the breath he could expel simply to keep him moving against the dragging weight of the chain coiling around the capstan's base. How any of them could find the strength to _sing_ bewildered him.

"You'll learn, lad; when there's a bit more flesh on them scrawny arms." Crain, a man of Westerwood and (unusually) a volunteer, insinuated himself between Drinian and the captain, sneakily supporting the boy's sagging weight. "Don't let the Old Man see you flaggin', got a right wasp in 'is cap over you, he 'as! Don't like _nobilities,_ if you follow."

"Boson said the same thing." A few deep breaths and he could stand erect without support. Drinian studied the powerful fellows around him with alarm. If getting the ship under weigh left him flabby as a discarded rag doll, how in the Lion's name was he to make himself useful?

"Wager he didn't tell you why. Aye, Captain, I'll see the boy up to the mainyard! Not scared o' heights, Drin?"

"No." Damn, his upper arms burned and they expected him to race hand-over hand to the top? But Kolin was curling a thin lip, openly daring him to protest, and half the company were watching. "Why: are you?"

"Young pup!" Laughing, the sailor hurled himself at the lattice of rope, Drinian half a stride ahead. Though he lacked Crain's strength, the older man struggled to match his agility. Their hands curled around the horizontal trunk of the yard at exactly the same instant.

"Good lad," Crain approved as they swung across to perch side by side. Drinian kept his gaze on the clouds above for a few seconds, giving time to steady himself before looking down to the minute figures scurrying on deck a terrifying distance below.

"Captain Kolin's said to be the son of a great lord, see," the sailor murmured, tipping a wink to the topman next in line. "An' stop your ears flappin' Master Lain, 't ain't like you've not heard the same rumour as the rest of us!"

"That his mother was a laundress cast from her master's castle when her mistress found them out?" Drinian guessed, pleased by their slack-jawed awe. "Hardly an uncommon occurrence, surely? Why! Narnian history's littered with such things; the Conqueror himself sired a daughter the same way. As well for his succession it was a girl, my grandfather said."

"They say the Old Man's father has a place at court," Dorix, with his trimmed beard and perfect diction piped up from the farthest end of the yard. "And his mother swore vengeance when her lover sent her packing in naught but her bloody petticoats. Coo! Last time His Majesty came to Barwell, what a palaver we had! Captain refusing to go ashore, the Mate in a panic… of course, there was naught for it. The King wished to see his captains, so the Old Man had to go. Did we smart for it the next cruise! Let fall, lads!"

The sail tumbled down like a giant curtain, hastily secured by a cluster of men at its foot. "You've a place at court on shore, Drin?"

"As an irritant to Narnia, naught more." His heart shrivelled with the acknowledgement, even as the casual shortening of his name raised a smile. Most of the crew had fallen into the habit, and though his aunt (and most likely his mother) would have groaned, Drinian found he rather liked it.

_Drinian_, after all, was the Lord of Etinsmere. Even before meeting Captain Kolin he had recognised that noble gentleman would fit ill aboard an Archenlandish ship of war.

"Aye, well never let the Old Man hear tell of your going there, if you've a care for his approval."

"I'm hardly like to win that, Dorix; but thank you for the advice." Impertinence amused them, he had discovered, and if his commander was unlikely to become an ally, the tolerance of the lower deck was all the more vital.

Drinian knew he had made a promising start; even Topasio slapped him on the back as the galleon skirted the archipelago of islands off the river mouth and tacked southward into a placid sea. Even his brief residence had left him feeling more comfortable in the cramped squalor of the hold than he had during three years at Westerwood. If he could only continue to bite his tongue against the patronising stares of a resentful bastard, he assured himself, His Archenlandish Majesty's galleon _Tiger_ would suit him as well as any residence beyond Etinsmere ever could.

* * *

Even Kolin improved in his estimation as the cruise drew on, taking the galleon beyond the Bight of Calormen and into the near ocean, skirting the edge of Terebinthian waters. The ship glistened for a reason; the decks were scrubbed each morning, and every man was sent before dinner to sharpen his cutlass against the spinning grindstone or shoot a dozen arrows at targets thrown out astern by the Topasio. Drinian attended every task he was entrusted with mute diligence, determined to earn respect, however grudging.

In everything bar mathematics, he succeeded admirably.

"You're a natural sailor, I'll grant you that," Topasio acknowledged the evening they turned west for port, having sighted nothing more threatening than a pair of fishing smacks and a Galmian trading barge. "Knot an' splice with the best of 'em, race to the fighting top like a frightened monkey, can read the weather as well as I do, and not afraid to scar your fine hands with all this haulin' about of ropes. But lad, until you learn to take three from twelve without leavin' eight, you'll always be at peril of landin' your ship athwart them bleedin' rocks off the Winding Arrow's mouth! Sarin! Enough of this mournful caterwauling man, we're homeward bound from a month's wasted wenchin' time! Let's have a tune the younglings can dance to! Aye, join them, Drinian but remember: no court prancing here!"

"Lion be thanked!" Sarin, whose surliness had faded under appreciation of his limited musical talents, struck up an energetic scratch on the fiddle and half the crew charged the main deck to jump and skip, slapping hands and hallooing with abandon. Aunt would be horrified, Drinian mused as he threw himself into the centre of the scrum.

Lanterns set high at the masthead, bow and sternpiece cast pulses of shadow across the deck, shifting in answer to wave and wind. The tempo of the melody changed, but the dancers ignored it, leaping and slapping hands to their own rhythm while the older, the more staid or high-ranked looked on. Drinian's breath came fast; gooseflesh prickled arms bared against the night's increasing chill. When the men around him began to bellow the strange words of a song he recalled Uncle imploring another crew not to teach, he was able to join in, brows furrowing under the laughing looks his elders shot his way.

His one visit to Galamaia had not implied the girls there were any more courteous than those of Narnia or Archenland; the words bawled by his companions suggested otherwise, though quite what was deemed _gallant_ in dancing over tables in one's petticoats, he could not imagine.


	25. Chapter 24

_**TWENTY FOUR**_

"Pirates." Darin groused midway through their third cruise, slamming his wooden bowl and mug down beside Drinian's at their mess table. "Six weeks in waters they say are infested with the buggers, and not a sign! Waste our arrows in practise, that's what we do out here!"

"Perhaps they see our size and scuttle back to port?" Sarin suggested, idly stirring the gloop known by the galley master as _porridge_ until it stuck messily to his spoon. "I hope so, at least! You may long for a jaw to crack, but I should sooner evade any more violence than the boson's flyin' hand, thank you."

"Might yet try the strength o' the captain's chin if he sneers down that great long beak of his an' mutters _peasant_ when I dares to cuss again," his cousin complained, loud enough to earn a kick from his more experienced neighbour, Crain. Drinian chewed a coarse chunk of undercooked grain thoughtfully.

"Small wonder he's so dour, hating us all equally," he murmured, covering the wry words from the passing Mate with his grimy fingers. "Despising the _peasant_ as much as the lord must limit his friendships on shore!"

His messmates' laughter brought curious stares their way. Drinian met the narrowed gaze of Kolin's deputy with a guileless smile that amused his companions even more.

"'ave your 'ead for insolence,_ he_ would," Wat muttered as he shoved away his scraped bowl. "You're scrubbin' the decks with me again, Drin?"

"Aye." His fingers were scraped from gripping the sandstone block soaked with water with which the deck planking was rubbed each day. "If it cheers the Old Man to see a Narnian nobleman on his knees, he might be kinder to you miserable peasants! I'll wash up, Crain – you did it every meal yesterday. Meet you on the fo'c'sle in ten minutes, Wat?"

"Aye, m'Lord!" Ducking from the spoon Drinian aimed at the gold hoop hanging from his right ear ring, the sailor rolled his way from the table, leaving his friends to stow furniture and utensils below until dinnertime.

* * *

His back ached damnably, and the stone seemed determined to slide from his sweating palms every second stroke, but Drinian congratulated himself a visiting admiral would approve the shine his efforts were bringing to the worn timbers of the maindeck. The hiss of the stone and swish of the sluicing water from Wat's pail were hypnotic, lulling his movements into a steady rhythm, and the exertion no longer exhausted him as it first had. Not only would he be taller when next he rode through Westerwood's gates, he thought smugly: Aunt would find him broader too.

"Sail in sight!"

He stopped at full forward stretch, his head automatically cocked for the identifying shout that must quickly follow. From the corner of his eye he saw Wat's foot begin to tap off the seconds ticking by. The hum of workaday activity ceased. Uneasily aware of the faint prickling of fine hairs along his arm, Drinian could feel the tension of every man aboard rebounding up from the decks and off the bulwarks.

"A schooner, Cap'n: Terebinthian rigged and tacking our way!"

"All hands to battle stations!" Before Kolin had finished the command buckets, cloths and pails were being tossed away. A few men seized the archer's tools which lay in readiness at the mast's foot before tearing up the ratlines to the fighting top; others charged below in search of cutlasses, armour and additional bows and arrows. For a split second Drinian stared, his mind racing through the instructions he had been given. Then a muscled hand dragged him upright, and with a shove in the back to start him on his way he was running with the crowd to buckle on a breastplate and snatch up his weapons.

Where in the Lion's name was his station? Stumbling under his armour's unfamiliar weight he spotted Crain waving from his position at the foot of the poop ladder, relief making him lightheaded. Of course! As an aspiring officer he should place himself at the heart of any boarding fight; ready to defend the wheel and to leap across to the pirate's lower deck at the captain's order.

He couldn't help but ponder the idiocy of wrapping steel around his chest a few minutes before possibly being asked to jump across a sliver of open sea. If a fellow were to miss his footing and fall…

"Stop it!" The schooner was ranging toward them and from overheard he caught the first sibilant hiss and thwack of arrow from string. It took all the self-restraint he possessed not to duck.

Sarin did. "Stand firm, you damned cowardly lubber!" Marix screamed over Drinian's shoulder. "That were one of ours!"

"That wasn't!" The pirate vessel was smaller than he had imagined, her sail patched and her hull pockmarked where she had crashed alongside her victims. For the first time in his life he realised a ship under full sail could look positively _nasty_.

"Take cover!" Topasio's shout was hoarse. Hefting one of the heavy steel shields which had been hung over the starboard rail over his head, Drinian flinched against the pattering rain of missiles his imagination conjured up. "Miserable scurvy dogs!" the Mate howled when the pirates' assault fell short. "Every man to his bow! Shoot the scum down, lads!"

He had never practised at the archery butts as diligently as he ought. Drinian's fingers trembled against the shaft of the first arrow he tried to set, and the tentative _twang_ as it released from the string did nothing to bolster his knock-kneed alarm.

The second volley was better from _Tiger's _men. Drinian craned his neck, watching first one pirate, then another, a lad barely older than himself he guessed, topple forward to slump against the rail. Instinctively he drew back his bow again, waiting for the order. The moment it came his arrow was arcing into the hazy morning sky.

He dared not follow its flight; there was no time for morbid curiosity in war.

A saying of the Conqueror's. He paused with bow raised, shocked it should come to him at such a moment. Mallian's early teaching had ingrained better than the old dullard would ever know!

The schooner heeled away under cover of another ragged volley; this time, he noticed, hardly a man bothered to seek protection while the helmsman spun the galleon's great wheel through his fingers, turning her on to a pursuing course south toward Terebinthia.

"Shan't catch the witch," Crain observed, setting down his weapon before the order could be cried from the poop. "With _that_ speed she'll reach shallower water than we can navigate inside two hours, and what do we do then? Loiter off their lair in the hope they're mad enough to face us?"

"I should 'ope not. We're due back at Barwell a week from now and I've a pressin' 'pointment to keep." Wat ambled from his post forward to leer out at the escaping ship. "For shame, Crain, you'd 'ave Mistress Nin kept awaitin' our custom? Needs a lick o' paint and a proper careening, that lady."

"The pirate, or Mistress Nin?" Marix wanted to know, hurrying for the poop to make his report to the captain. Not wanting his ignorance to stand out, Drinian dutifully joined his comrades' laughter. "Sail 'andlers, get your lazy backsides aloft there! Cap'n, no injuries to report, Sir!"

* * *

Two hours later the decks were finally scrubbed down and the party charged with their cleaning dismissed to their own affairs. Drinian drifted forward to the fo'c'sle where a line of washing danced in the freshening breeze, guiltily aware one of his jerkins lacked a brass button and that two of his shirts were frayed at the hem. A silver needle's point scraped the soft skin of his forearm; white thread trailed in his wake. Who, he wondered, would have thought it so infernally difficult to slide the wetted end of cotton through a needle's narrow slot? His eyes were younger then Wat's; his fingers leaner and longer. Yet without the big man's assistance, his garments would still be awaiting repair when he next went to Westerwood!

He pulled his belongings from the line and squatted in the lee of the snarling bow figure, fumbling to hold the bright button in place with his left hand while manipulating the needle with his right. A curse bubbled at the back of his throat; the button slipped and skittered across deck, and as he lunged to retrieve it his grip on the needle relaxed.

"Damn and blast the infernal thing!"

"Such language was best kept below deck, Etinsmere." He dragged himself upright, biting off a grim smile at the inevitability of Captain Kolin being sole witness to his misfortunes. "An officer ought to retain composure before his men at all times, however a man of _rank_ may cuss at the lower orders."

"I beg pardon, Sir." Had he been reared in his father's house, Drinian mused sulkily, the Captain might have known a _true_ gentleman only cussed his equals, never those less fortunate. "My court education ought to have included lessons in sewing!"

"And in observation of where one's arrows fall." Kolin smirked down at him, and if he thought Drinian's head bowed in shame, so much the better for both. "You recovered yourself respectably, I'll grant you; but next time we face a vicious enemy, I expect to see better leadership in one whose _court education_ surely included some lessons in how to _guide and inspire_. Attend to your errand, boy: and present yourself to the Boson tomorrow for shooting practice at the fighting top."

"Aye, Sir." Curling his fingers back into his palms, Drinian kept his head down until the Captain's shadow had dissolved from the deck.

There was justice in the man's criticism, he acknowledged: panic had frozen his mind for a terrible moment, and his shooting had suffered thanks to the flock of birds he had felt swirling in his belly throughout the encounter. As an officer, if not as a Narnian lord, he ought to have performed better.

Angrily, he dug his needle through the softened leather jerkin, chanting blasphemies in his head as he brought it up and into the pad of his thumb. Disappointment in himself was painful enough to bear; that the Old Man should find in his failure opportunity to gloat…

"I'm more of a _proud nobleman_ than I thought," he grunted, biting his vicious way through the tight cotton securing his button in place. "If the jealousy of a bitter devil like _that_ upsets me! Lion Alive! Hi, Dorix! How does one hem a shirt, do you know?"


	26. Chapter 25

_**TWENTY FIVE**_

Barwell buzzed with excitement. "The King an' half his court are riding to inspect the fleet, Drin, have you not heard?" Crain bellowed from the shore, his ruddy complexion heightened by the exertion of rolling a brace of barrels to the well and back. "The smell o' paint in the town square you wouldn't believe, and they're hangin' the bunting and banners from every building and tree! No idlin' when you go ashore, else they'll wrap a flag 'round your lofty head!"

"As if I've time to stand and gossip!" Swinging from the landward side, Drinian waved his paintbrush in salute, frowning at his gaudy handiwork on the scarlet panel bearing the galleon's name. "So this is why we're ordered to polish every nail head that shows between the planks!"

"Aye, for we've been five years without a royal inspection." Hanging over the stern rail, Marix blew on the sheet of gold leaf with which he was edging _Tiger's _T. "Cap'n's gone ashore for his orders. 'Spect that means we'll be boarded an' asked to show off our smart sail 'andlin', so long as the weather's calm!"

"Fancy the Old Man's hoping for a storm, then!"

"That'll do, Wat! I remember His Majesty's last inspection just as well as you." Marix rolled his eyes expressively. "Careful with that brush, lad! Lion Bless us, look what the tavern masters are about, tartin' up the premises with fresh paint an' perfume! The wenches'll be chargin' double for a year to pay for all their fine new clothes!"

* * *

"Our orders, gentlemen, are to anchor off the river mouth and salute His Majesty's vessel as it tacks through the fleet." Kolin stood erect in the middle of his darkened cabin, turned from the shielded porthole in the hope, Drinian guessed, that shadow would conceal the tension in his irregular features from his huddle of assembled officers. He ran a hand through his lank sandy hair, piercing first one then another with a brief, challenging stare. "An hour beyond lunch, the royal party will board. His Royal Highness, we understand, is especially eager to tour our lady – Etinsmere, you will ensure he does _not_ fall in a barrel of rum, nor trip a man of our company over the side. His Majesty will admire our smart seamanship, then return to his own vessel to lead the flotilla to port. In the evening I shall lead six men to my Lord Admiral's residence where a banquet will be held in His Majesty's honour. On the morning following, all hands will man the rigging to cheer His Majesty's party on their way. Topasio – see the rum casks are guarded, and Marix, I expect the men to look like _sailors_, not vagabonds. Are we fit to sail?"

"Aye, Cap'n!" The Mate's foot tapped rapidly; his glee was infectious, and Drinian could see grins spreading over the faces of the Boson, Master Bowman and Dorix, present as the senior topman and trying to hide himself in behind Topasio's greater bulk. Kolin nodded.

"Very well; weigh anchor and set course for the northern tip of the archipelago; _Tiger_ is to take station at the vanguard, the remainder of the flotilla will take their positions from us. I do _not_ expect mistakes."

"Aye, Captain." Filing from the cabin and out onto the poop, Drinian sucked a deep breath, deliberately flexing his clenched shoulders. He was not timid, but being in the Old Man's company always made him believe he might learn to be.

"You know the Prince, Drin?" Marix seized his shoulder, fingers digging deep enough to bruise. "I hear tell of him bein' a right oddity!"

"He'd grant you that much himself." Instinctively he checked the polish of the brass handrail, stifling a grin at the distorted reflection it threw up at him. "If there's a loose tail of rope or a broom left lying on deck, I'll lay odds on Corin tripping over it! I wonder if the Princess rides with the King's party?"

* * *

_Tiger_ glistened from stem to stern as she swung at anchor within sight of the river mouth, blue and gold pennants streaming from her masthead and glinting shields hung out along her landward side. Beyond her sternpiece, in a large V of galleons, brigs, barques and schooners, the remainder of Archenland's small fleet flew loyal signals in greeting of the royal galleon _Golden Mist_ which inched under half sail from the Winding Arrow's broad mouth. "Confounded silly name for a ship," Marix dripped from the corner of his mouth. "Since when was a mist _golden_, anyway? Wet, grey an' miserable, that's what it is!"

"Ship's company! Salute!" Topsasio hollered.

Kolin delegated the bawling of orders to his deputy on a daily basis knowing his reedy drawl failed to carry, but on this occasion he did have legitimate excuse. He stood at the entryport, his hands clasped behind his ramrod spine, bowing low as, to the whistling of a dozen pipes, King Nain stepped tentatively from his personal galleon's siderail to _Tiger's_, Corin and Anelia leading a troupe of finely-robed courtiers in his wake. Drinian scanned the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of his uncle in their midst.

"Lord Admiral's 'ere, lad: Lord Dar'd be as welcome as a kraken in a crowded port." Marix pursed his thick lips, eyeing the unfortunate Gurin as if he had recently crawled from a crust of mouldy bread. "Stand to attention, me lads; we're about to be presented!"

The shuffling of feet in their line stilled. Drinian risked a peep at his neighbours, amused by the tension he read in their blank faces. Now if it had been Caspian the Ninth checking the polish of his boots, he _would_ have been apprehensive, but Nain's own would most likely be mud-smudged even at sea. The monarch's jovial pleasantries filtered down the queue of waiting seamen, a vibrant counterpoint to the monotone civilities of his host.

"Ah, my Lord of Etinsmere!" Nain exclaimed, snatching the hand Drinian would have lifted to his brow in salute. "I trust this young scapegrace does credit to his exalted heritage aboard, Captain? Gurin, you met Dar's nephew at court, you remember? We hear high praise from the Mate of your conduct, young man. How do you find life at sea? No special privileges, eh?"

"None, Sire." His eyes slid left of their own volition to the pinched visage of his commander. Nain beamed.

"As you would wish it, no doubt! Your relations command me convey their warmest regards – you'll join us at Anvard when leave's granted, I trust? Captain, you'll be bringing my Lord Drinian to the Admiral's banquet tonight, of course."

"Of course, Your Majesty." At that instant he would as gladly have taken the brat to his execution; it was obvious in his taut posture and grinding teeth. Drinian had sometimes wondered at Prince Corin's blithe insensitivity; now he knew where it came from. "Although – it would be _unusual_ for so young an officer to be favoured above his shipmates."

"The Prince and his sister would take it as a great kindness to have their friend in attendance."

Kolin blenched. "I would deny Their Royal Highnesses no pleasure it lay in my power to ensure, Sire," he bit out, keeping his gaze somewhere over the King's right shoulder. Drinian narrowed his eyes, surveying the knot of whispering gentlemen in the captain's line of sight.

Barsin and Hastin in their sky blue tunics of office; Farix, the Prince's tutor, and bent, dribbling old Belmar, once the Lord Chamberlain, kept since retirement at Anvard on his master's kindness: Lord Gurin and his deputy – what was the simpering dandy's name? Not _Clot_, even if that _was_ Uncle's designation in his last letter! The sight of them was plainly causing havoc with the Captain's blood pressure; he went pale, then red, then as white as if he were about to faint, and all with King Nain chatting animatedly at his side.

_They say the Old Man's father has a place at court. _

"Ouch!" he breathed, astonished by the compassion twisting his gizzard. The King would not be wantonly cruel, but were he to bring the callous sire aboard an abandoned son's ship… small wonder the Captain's hands were clenched rigid!

"With Your Majesty's consent, we will weigh anchor," Kolin offered tightly. Nain beamed.

"At your convenience, my dear Captain. My Lord Drinian, when your duties permit, you'll stand watch – that _is_ the term, I believe? – over Their Highnesses? Corin, Anelia – you are under the orders of our hosts as we all are – and don't tug on those ropes, boy, you might bring the whole rig down onto our heads!"

"Those are the signal halyards, Sire, there's no harm can be done." Kolin almost sounded sorry. "Topasio! Signal the fleet; weigh anchor and prepare to sail."

"Signalmen!" The crew sprang into action, Drinian leading the charge to the flag locker, pulling out strings of gaily coloured bunting to be raised to the masthead. As he hooked the correct flags into sequence, each one representing a word, phrase or letter, his quick ear caught the stirring of a breath behind him.

"Looks deuced complicated," Prince Corin remarked amicably, taking swift evasive action from his friend's sharp turn. "Not in the way, are we?"

"If Your Highness would take a step back, I'll run these up the halyards before the Boson here damns my tardiness." Exasperation was no equal for Corin's guileless good temper. Drinian rolled his eyes at Marix while nimbly knotting the ropes in place. "If you'd like to be useful, catch the tail o' that rope and heave when I tell you to!"

"Aye, Sir! Ouf!" The signal inched skyward despite their lusty pulling, and Corin staggered backward, letting the line slip from his burning palm. "Small wonder you're broader around the shoulders than when I saw you last! Hi, Anelia! Give a hand!"

"_Please_ don't encourage him, Drinian." An exotic butterfly in midwinter could hardly have looked more out of place than the gilded princess, her dark hair coiled under a net of woven gold, on the warship's deck. "We promised Father we should stand quiet and _not _get in the way. You _will_ introduce your colleagues to us?"

"Gladly, Ma'am, when I'm down from the top." With the signals flying he needed no prod from a superior to send him clambering into rigging. Anelia's hands flew to her mouth, almost catching her squeak.

"You have to go all the way up _there_?" he heard her yelp after him. Racing at his side, Crain chortled.

"Not got much clue, landsfolk," he muttered. "S'pose _royal_ lubbers are dimmer than most!"

"Not all of them." Drinian's thoughts flew north to Caspian, goggle-eyed and gleeful on his rare sailing trips along the northern coast. The King had pretended not to know his chief minister encouraged the heir's awestruck fascination with the Etinsmeres' element, secretly pleased, Papa claimed, to see some spirit in the boy. He fumbled with the sailropes, stunned by the surge of misery that wrenched his innards. Lion bless him, would he _never_ stop pining for what was lost?

He lingered aloft as late as he dared, painfully conscious of his swollen lip and glassy eyes. Corin might be a good-hearted oaf, but his sister had the shrewdness of a demon, and under testing circumstances he dared not draw the Captain's eye his way. All the tides of the unknown seas seemed to slosh in his stomach as he descended to deck, pinning on a smile that pinched his jaw. He_ had _thought, in spite of the Old Man's bristling, that he welcomed their presence.

Now, he could barely wait to wave His Majesty's train off on the road to Anvard.

* * *

His gloom deepened back in port, exacerbated by the humming glee of shipmates washed, combed and dressed in dark grey tunics trimmed with scarlet, the formal uniform of the fleet none of them had worn in a combined twenty years of service. "Coo!" Wat chortled as they marched through the town square behind their Captain and Mate. "Me at a royal feast, who'd've ever saw_ that _comin'?"

"Same fool as imagined you without those whiskers down your chin!" Dorix countered, his rolling gait causing him to bump his young neighbour on every other step. "Drin, what's the etiquette for these things? Speak when spoken to and don't drink soup from your knife?"

"And always say _thank you_ to the servants. Aunt insists on it." He lifted a startled gaze to the two-storied square of metal-toned stone which fronted the street before them. "Is _this_ the Admiral's house?"

Unadorned by carving, brick or iron work, it was as forbidding a residence as any tyrant's castle "Looks more like a fortress;" muttered the small, straggle-haired man at his back. "Aye, or a cell!"

"And Darin's been in enough o' them to know!" Marix exclaimed

"Silence!" Captain Kolin stopped so abruptly poor Wat had no chance of evading him. "Topasio, you will ensure these petty villains do not disgrace their ship. My Lord."

"Captain Kolin, good, excellent! Their Royal Highnesses have been anxiously awaiting your party's arrival." Thin and damp, Lord Hastin bypassed the Captain's proffered hand midway through his sentence, clasping Drinian's instead in a clammy grip. "My Lord of Etinsmere, pray come with me – Kolin, your fellows are to be seated at my table. This way, young man, you're placed at the King's table."

Two small holes began to burn into his back; the Captain's angry stare, he knew without glancing around. "My Lord, it would be a courtesy to Captain Kolin, as the senior officer present," he hissed. The scrawny back before his eyes raised in a convulsive shrug.

"You're not afloat now, and this fellow Kolin has no seniority on shore. His Majesty most _specifically_ requested Your Grace's presence at his elbow." The corner of his mouth drooping, Hastin peered back to frown over Drinian's shoulder, averting his eyes the moment they caught the sulking officer's. "Your Highness!"

"Drinian, at last!" Anelia, resplendent in ivory silk with a shimmering jade underskirt, hurried forward with hands outstretched. "Thank you, Hastin! Goodness, you ought to wear the uniform more often, it's rare to see someone it actually suits! Here, you're sitting beside me, with Corin opposite. We shall protect you from the glares I see your grim captain keeps sending!"

"The captain outranks me, Anelia; 'tis hardly proper for a ship's boy to take precedence over his commander."

"Oh, really!" Her high laughter, he was certain, drew the attention of half the room to her trilling rebuke. "As if a low-born seaman _ever_ outranked a lord! Father, did you ever hear such nonsense!"

"Concern for your captain's sensitive corns does you credit, my Lord." Superb in royal purple trimmed with white fur, a gold circlet perched on the tips of his ears, Nain patted his arm. "But – I'll wager there are _rumours_ aboard a galleon; you understand why it would be improper to invite a – well, a fellow of his _heritage_ to dine with us. Ah, Gurin! Your Lordship must excuse me; I'm summoned by our host."

"Of course, Sire." Inwardly wincing, he allowed Anelia to drag him unresisting to their seats on the left of Nain's cushioned throne.

Even the Conqueror (acknowledged in the histories to have been a terror of a man with a temper to match) had shown his illegitimate offspring fair consideration, marrying her to a nobleman and seeing her honoured as his blood (if not her dam's) deserved. Of course, had the child been a boy he would as likely have had it smothered with a pillow, but that was hardly the point.

"Better to have ordered him out to sea than hang him out for public scorn," he muttered into his mead cup, disguising awareness of Kolin's mutinous scrutiny beneath his long lashes. "If they can offer no acknowledgement, surely they can at least muster respect!"


	27. Chapter 26

_**TWENTY SIX**_

He suffered for his status when the _Tiger_ sailed again; two weeks had done little to soothe the Captain's indignation, but to the astonishment of his comrades Drinian accepted a day's short rations for being a minute late from his cot without demur. "Better he kicks me than any of you," he explained, accepting the crumbling biscuit Wat produced from a pocket with a grateful grin. "Here, take my tot for it – rum on an empty stomach's a recipe for a woollen head, my father said, and I dare not be late on deck again tomorrow! I insist; you're risking the lash to smuggle sustenance down to me."

"Mate's on duty an' won't say owt even if 'e catches us." Freeing the grubby cloth that held back his long hair, Wat swung himself into his hammock to suck greedily on the small measure of rum. "May not be as loud as old Marix in praisin' you, Drin, but you've an ally in Topasio for what little it's worth. Who was it spied that squall chasin' us from the south yesterday? Not Master Mate, still groggy from a week's carousin' ashore! You'll be promoted from_ Boy_ to Seaman if Topasio gets 'is way – more damn responsibility, that's all it is, so don't get cocky with your messmates!"

"If I should, the Old Man would have my hide." The biscuit fell apart against his tongue and stuck to his teeth, but it was manna to a hungry lad. With a lusty yawn, he stretched up to crush out the flickering lantern hanging over his feet. "As he will if I'm late tomorrow! Goodnight!"

* * *

"Sail in sight – correction, two sail!"

The hail from the fighting top made his stomach lurch every time, an excitement Drinian was beginning to suspect would never change. He snatched his telescope from the shelf behind the compass box, ready on the balls of his feet to run forward at the officer of the watch's command. Topasio nodded. "Sarin! Fetch the Captain. I want a full report, Drin, before he gets to the wheel."

"Aye, Sir!" The Mate was worried; the casual nickname betrayed it. _Two_ ships in waters far from anywhere? Close together, too, else Dorix would have identified both without cause for amendment.

He didn't bother to climb into the crow's nest, wrapping an arm around the mast's crown to steady himself with his glass already pressed to his eye. "The nearer's a schooner, Sir!" he yelled. "Looks Terebinthian. She's hard athwart a brig – Galmian I reckon. Wait – aye, they're definitely grappled together!"

"Full sail! Hard a-starboard!" Kolin's screech reminded him of chalk being dragged down Harmin's blackboard. Leaving the business of sail management to his colleagues, Drinian tore down to deck and along to his station below the poop, ready in a moment to hoist signals or race with messages the length of the ship.

"Some poor bugger bein' boarded by pirates," Crain volunteered, bustling past at the head of a deck-clearing party. "Sharpened your cutlass this cruise, Drin? Fancy you'll need it in a few minutes!"

The blade hung at his hip, its edges freshly ground before the voyage began. So accustomed to its weight had he become that Drinian had to caress the hilt to reassure himself he was ready.

_Armed_, he amended. Not ready, for all the instruction the best teachers at Etinsmere and Anvard could provide. Blunted blades brandished in childish play were no preparation for the cold steel of actual battle.

The two vessels, locked together by strong chains, were plainly visible from deck now; weirdly distorted yells twisted on the still air, laced through with discordant clang of blade striking blade. "To arms, men!" Kolin howled, shafts of light lancing from his twirling sword as he clung to the poop's narrow rail, legs flexed in readiness for the leap down to the Galmian's deck. "Topasio, lay us aft, and hold her steady! On my order, men, we'll take 'em by storm!"

_Remember to breathe, Drinian_, he mocked himself, scrambling with the rest of the crew onto the narrow ledge of the forward bulwark. He grabbed a curved iron lantern hook hanging from the bulkhead, tensing his muscles for the shuddering force of collision as _Tiger_ ranged up from the brig's rear, dwarfing both combatants with her sheer bulk. Grinding his teeth against the sickening crunch of impact, he steadied himself, rocked back on his heels and leapt.

"Ouf!" His legs buckled under him, but there was no time to complain. He was carried bodily forward by his screeching shipmates, his feet contacting the brig's grimy planking every third pace he took while the cutlass waved violently over his head. Around him a rhythmic chant had been taken up, and reflexively he joined it, oddly strengthened by the lusty expulsion of the single word from his lungs.

_Tiger! Tiger! Tiger!_

A thousand different sensations struck him at once: the dirt of the deck, the appalling clamour of voices clashing one off the other; the heaving, writhing mass of men on the maindeck below spewing out staggering morsels of bloodied humanity that crumpled to be trodden into the deck with battle's ebb and flow. "To me, Tigers!" Kolin bawled, flinging himself to the fore. "Galmians, retreat! Archenland and the King!"

Again Drinian's feet left the deck, and he had no time to wonder how such orders were to be obeyed. The pirate crew were tripping over themselves to face the new threat, pikes, battle axes and swords waving toward the Archelanders while their terrified victims stumbled for the high forecastle, yelling bloodthirsty encouragement to their rescuers. "Give 'em no time, men!" Kolin screamed, close enough to make Drinian's ears ring. "Charge the villains!"

The pirates surged forward, striking the newcomers with the ferocity of a tidal wave. Drinian jabbed ahead with his cutlass, unaware of the shrill stream of blasphemy that burst from his burning throat. Bodies barged against him, making it hard to retain his footing, and from the corner of his eye he spied a vicious hooked implement swinging down toward his skull.

Throwing himself sideways to dodge the blow he struck out, feeling his blade flex and bend as it sliced through something soft and flabby.

Above the roaring and clanging he distinctly heard his assailant's gurgling curse as he toppled to the deck.

"Well done, boy!" Kolin roared, deftly deflecting a sword slash that might have taken his head off before Drinian could comprehend what he had just done. "We've the beating of 'em now – larboard, look out!"

He threw out a stroke in the direction commanded, better prepared for the crunch of steel reaching bone the second time. A massive man with a blotched complexion, no front teeth and a bushy beard surged beyond the blow as if it had passed straight through him, his sword swishing. Blindly, Drinian lashed out again, and the pirate dropped like a stricken bear at his feet.

It was, he realised long after, at that point that his mind chose to freeze, leaving his limbs to move for themselves. All the elegant technique drilled by hours of schoolboy practise was forgotten. A crimson haze descended around him as he stabbed and parried, his throat raw from the yells he never knew he expelled. He understood nothing more until the awful din was replaced by an eerie peace broken only by the whimpers of the wounded and the crisp voice of Captain Kolin barking instruction to the boson from the bloody mess that was the poop.

"You all right, Drin?" Wat stepped hard on the midriff of a pirate corpse, extending a steadying arm to his whey-faced friend. "Devils the lot of 'em, but we give 'em a proper thrashin' this time! Lean overboard if you're as sick as you look, by the way – you'll get used to the guts 'n' gore when you've served as long as me! 'Ere, wipe that blade on deck, not your shirt, and come help Sarin tend our wounded. The Old Man wants me guardin' the prisoners – reckons I'm the greatest ogre on board."

"Do you take that as a compliment?" With his tattooed forearms and hooked and battered nose, the big Archenlander was a fearsome sight in the darkness of the hold, Drinian acknowledged but unless he had hoarded his rum tots for a week there was no man gentler or more genial. Wat grinned, exposing his blackened front teeth.

"Near as I'll get from that smirkin' old villain, aye! Lion Alive, feller, what're you usin' to dress them wounds?"

"Poltice of herbs and goose fat we use on the farm, you great lumberin' town oaf." With strips of sail canvas coated in the sticky mixture, Sarin was busily binding a serpentine gash across his cousin's thigh. "Aye, Drin, I'd be glad of some help, these whinging poltroons need an officer callin' them to attention…"

"And since the proper officers are busy, I'm the best available." The quip made the gaggle of huddled injured laugh. Dipping his hands into the waiting pot of grease, Drinian set about smearing more bandages in readiness for Sarin's call. "Ought we not attend the prisoners too? I know they're villains, but the Old Man hates to see a stain on his decks…."

"Wat'll tend 'em in his own way, but the thought's a kinder one than the demons deserve." Marix loomed astern, blue eyes twinkling. "You're to stay aboard with my crew, Drin. The Galmians have too many dead and wounded to manage three days' beating against the tide to home, so seven of _us_ are ordered to help 'em. You'll take a watch tonight?"

"Aye, Sir!" He had stood watches on the poop before, but always under Topasio's supervision. Marix, he knew, was offering unfettered command. "I'll send to you if necessary."

"Good lad." The brig was a paltry craft: her decks filthy and the rigging frayed, but she was a command, and for a few quiet hours in the night she would be _his_.

Drinian wished profoundly his father could witness so momentous an occasion.

* * *

He took possession of the poop at dusk, with the lantern on _Tiger's_ sternpiece already casting a golden trail across the sea for him to steer toward. The sail hung limp and on the maindeck a handful of subdued Galmians clustered about the mast's foot, peering aft at the intruders commanding their craft. "She's all yours, Drinian," Marix hollered cheerily from the hatch leading toward the master's cabin – his, Drinian assumed, for the duration of their voyage. "Hold a true course, and watch for signals from the _Tiger_. You'll have no trouble from those wretches!"

"Aye, Sir." Deliberately relaxing his fingers Drinian grasped the topmost spoke of the ship's wheel, certain he felt the play of water beneath the keel through it. Lifting his face to the chilly breeze he closed his eyes, determined to savour the novel sensation. Complete freedom, absolute command… every thing he had dreamed of for as long as he could recall.

Of course Marix was snoring in his cot below; Crain, Sarin and Darin would appear with cutlasses waving at his first cry for aid. Yet as the stars began to glint in a darkening velvet sky and the lumpen brigantine shuddered to his lightest touch, he could ignore reason and simply _feel_.

Blissful tears prickled his eyelids, and he made no effort to blink them back. This, what ever Miraz or Nain might imagine for him, was his future. Splendidly isolated, with just his ship and the whistling wind for company, he needed nothing of either king or kingdom. Small wonder Papa had urged his master to speed the development of the navy Narnia sorely needed!

The feeling stole over him, gradual but insistent. He was not alone.

"Don't mind an old seaman hovering?" The Galmian master lolled against the deck rail. Drinian's forehead wrinkled with concentration as he tried to dredge up the portly man's name. Galwain? It _sounded_ right, he admitted, but he had not paid sufficient attention when the Captain had made the introduction. _A lesson there_, he considered, unsurprised the voice in his head sounded so much like the Lord Tirian's.

"Of course not, sir. This is your station, after all."

"Aye, for all the good it's done me. Yours ain't an Archenlandish name, I'd be right in thinking?"

"Narnian."

"Thought as much – I've done business enough in the North to know that accent!" Galwain peered into the compass box and grunted. "A good hand on the tiller for a man of that land-hugging lot, if I may say."

"You may, and thank you." Drinian chewed his full lower lip, abandoning the first form the natural question took in his mind. "Your position when we chanced to find you suggests your course ran north of the established trading routes."

"And my business may not be _established trade_? Aye, you're a sharp 'un right enough." Galwain slapped him on the shoulder, eyebrows lifting at the impressive speed with which his balance adjusted to compensate. "Your captain thinks me little better than the blackguards you saved me from, but the good folk of Narnia need their Galmian spirits and canvas as much as their neighbours, and if there's little lawful trade…"

"Smugglers." His father had winked at the leakage of goods across the sea which appeared, untaxed and unacknowledged, at market for that very reason. "What part of the Narnian coast…"

"Just north of Glasswater, to catch the monthly market in the village. You know it?"

"Slightly. My home is farther north."

"Well to the north, I'll wager! Never ventured to the Etinsmere regions, too much chance o' sailing into the Lord Admiral! A sad pity he fell at Miraz's hand. Such a man might have made mariners of your people despite themselves."

"Aye." Even through the pain there was a shaft of fearsome pride at proof that beyond Narnia's bounds Papa's reputation stood high, and Miraz's in the filth. "What news did you hear? I have been – some years away from home."

"Exiled, eh?" He didn't care for the softening of the man's grating voice. "Well, better you pass time in sea service than idling! I saw the villain at Glasswater, surrounded by his minions – Glozelle and Solivar, and the young prince – you'd know him, I suppose?"

"You saw Caspian?" Brushing off the hint was easy in his excitement. "Is he well? By the Lion, he's eleven now, surely! Has he tutors – attendants fit for his rank?"

"He's a tutor right enough; round as he is long and all hidden in a black hood – Lion only knows where Miraz found him." Laying a steadying hand on the wheel (making Drinian swear inside that in his enthusiasm he should have forgotten his paramount duty) Galwain chuckled. "Mind, he must be a good man, however odd he appears; the Prince attended his every word and spoke gently, from what I saw, to all them that approached him."

"He is in good health?"

"Looks to be, aye, though he was kept a pace from his uncle's elbow as they rode through, and most folk were kept away by the flicking of whips from Glozelle riding as escort. He's named Guardian of Glasswater to protect the territory for Belisar's daughters. You'd know them too, of course."

"Of course." Silvana and Daniela had been both dance partners and the victims of several high pranks, but he tried not to think of those days now. Only Caspian, his trustiest ally, remained clear, and that plump small boy with the round face and mop of curls he recalled must be as much a creature of history as Etinsmere's rambunctious infant heir. "Does Miraz show him respect? Is he cowed by his uncle's presence?"

"He was properly restrained, and prettily mannered; saw him wince when a beggar caught the flat of Solivar's sword. A handsome lad; have no difficulty finding him a bride when the time comes. You're properly out of touch if you don't know he's officially named his uncle's heir."

"He was officially named his father's and see what Miraz made of that." Honourably handled, conducting himself like a son of the Conqueror's line and on confidential terms with his tutor; it was better news than Drinian had dared imagine he might hear, and it was given by a direct observer. Mumbling a farewell in answer to his informant's, he turned his gaze out beyond _Tiger's _imposing bulk to the vastness of ocean beyond. Perhaps he could dare hope henceforward that Caspian's confinement, constrained as it was by his uncle's limited patience, might be almost as congenial as his own.


	28. Chapter 27

Author's Note: This chapter is a bit jumpy, short vignettes almost to get our hero from A to B. I'm not really happy with it, but every attempt to re-work it seems to make it worse, so here goes!

_**TWENTY SEVEN**_

"Come on, you damned lazy brutes!" Darin yelled, striking a glancing blow against the gleaming chestnut flank of the nearest carthorse. "Up the beach with you, she's on damn great tree trunks ain't she? _Come on_!"

"Better the horses pull her ashore than we be asked to do it," Drinian commented mildly, urging the second beast onward with a consoling pat. Inch by agonised inch the huge bulk of the _Tiger_ crept out of her element, her timbers creaking in protest as she rode on massive wooden rollers, clear of the water and into dry dock. "And don't think the Old Man wouldn't ask it of us!"

"Aye, while 'e lolls about on the Lord Admiral's barge watchin' us suffer." Marix gave the ship's enormous keel a useless shove. "Barnacles big as boulders on the underside! Drin, you're the slightest of us all – they're yours to chip away if you want that promotion the Old Man mentioned."

"They should be mine in any case." He eyed the encrustations turning the timbers mottled grey, green and brown with disgust. Hard as granite and covered in slime, they climbed from the base of the keel toward the greenish smudge which marked the waterline, and already men were hacking with chisels, spraying chips across the beach and into the faces of the unwary. "Just as it's my duty to scrub the maindeck in the worst weather! A good sailor, I'll grant you, but…"

"Take us a month it will to clean her up," Crain observed mournfully, peeking around the bow. "Coo! An' as for his jealousy, me lad – think yourself lucky you're granted shore leave when we're done! Mate said in 'is cups last night the old devil wanted to stop you _gaddin' off playin' the great nobleman_ – 'sactly those words."

"Playing the obedient poor relation, more likely!" He spat a fragment of flying barnacle away from the corner of his mouth. "Here, Dorix, hand me a hammer, there's room enough for me to slip under now. And stand back!"

With the galleon lying like a beached whale on the shore, he slithered beneath the bow, shuffling to make himself as comfortable as possible before raising his tools and beginning the painful, smelly process of chiselling away the detritus of too many months exposure to the sea.

Within an hour every muscle in his arms had knotted with cramp; his thighs burned from the strain of holding himself twisted in so confined a space; and his eyes stung against constant assault by loosened encrustation. He had never been more relieved to see Crain's gap-toothed grin when the other man crawled below to relieve him.

"Cap'n says you're to eat, then get to work on the larboard bow," he announced in a stage whisper. "'E's not such a bad old tyrant sometimes – the Admiral was down watchin' us work, and I even heard 'im declare what a diligent young feller you are – for a nobleman, o' course."

"Of course." He crabbed his way out of the ship's shadow, cursing the brightness of the midday sun. "Ow!"

Marix offered a supporting arm while, gingerly, Drinian straightened his abused spine. "If it don't cripple you in the first week, you get used to it," the Boson told him good-humouredly. "Go and eat, then report back to me. Sooner we get done, the sooner us volunteers can go on leave."

* * *

None of the arduous labours of sailing had tired him, Drinian acknowledged by the second week's end, quite as much as the filthy business of careening the ship's whole hull. Once the worst of the barnacles were chiselled away the planking had to be scrubbed to remove the rest; then hot pitch in stinking barrels was ferried down the beach to be painted across the seams between hull and deck planking alike. The sickly smell made him light-headed; muscles he had never known he possessed ached with a fiery insistence. And at the end of each day, it seemed no more than another inch of the hull was restored.

How the pressed men, not trusted to work on shore without an officer at their backs and denied the prospect of a visit home (which was much more appealing as he considered the terrifying amount of work left to be done) endured the business so cheerfully, he could not imagine.

"No point our tryin' to run," Darin whispered as they cleared away the remnants of breakfast on the nineteenth day. "Cap'n's sendin' out more press gangs later, an' if we tried to bolt he'd 'ave all the 'ounds o' Barwell after us! Sea life's not so bad, anyway: no Tash-benighted merchants chasin' a feller for his last Half-Coronet to Galma an' back! The food's all right, an' the company's good enough."

"Aye, and the wife not after you for 'er keep every new week!" Sarin slapped his cousin on the back. "We'd not run now, Drin – we're agreed on that, not that the Old Man'd believe us."

"Not sure I do!" He dodged a good-natured cuffing, joining their raucous laughter. "After all, I'm a volunteer, and another month of this slavery might have _me_ running for the woods!"

"Rare Narnian that'd do that!" Topasio commented, hurrying past in a tar-stained apron. "Drin, you're below again this morning, but Captain says if you've a good seat you may ride with us this afternoon. We need another five men to sail this girl to her best. If you've a tender conscience about sweepin' up ruffians like these two, stow it with your sextant, there's a good lad."

"Aye, Sir." Pulling a face at the Mate's retreating back, he steeled himself against the crawling sensation of disgust that accompanied every mention of the navy's marauding gangs. Aboard the _Tiger_ it was true, pressed men laboured willingly enough beside their volunteer shipmates, their lack of rancour against brazen abduction a source of never-ending astonishment. But to be party to the seizure of another mortal being from his settled way of life…. Every instinct Drinian possessed revolted against the notion.

* * *

He tried to imagine they ambled through the sunny countryside for pleasure; an idyllic fantasy hardly helped by the low thrum of Topasio's incessant cursing. The Mate lolled in the saddle like an old sack of turnips, clutching the reins hard enough to make his knuckles crack with each stride his apathetic cob took. That the fields were empty of labourers beyond a pair of withered old men and a girl improved his temper not a jot, while lifting his neighbour's markedly.

"Could they have had word?" he wondered aloud. Topasio snorted.

"Aye, most likely some villain at the dockyard cast out a line," he agreed, giving his horse's bridle a vicious tug when the animal would have paused for a bite of verdant hedgerow. "They know when a ship's in for careening there'll be a gang sent out. Hi! In the woods four points to starboard! Gallop, lads, don't let the laggard get away!"

Drinian had disliked hunting even as a small boy trotting after the King's hounds with an elderly falcon perched on his wrist, sickened by the boisterous excitement of the grown-ups chasing a terrified mammal through a thicket. To see a fellow man tripping through the undergrowth, glancing back every third step as his screaming pursuers bore down upon him, their whoops rebounding from the trees, made his stomach spasm and his head spin.

_Hurry up! _He urged the poor man silently, dropping back into Topasio's wake. _Dive into a hollow, or climb a tree – do anything but run on and think you'll escape us!_

But still the man blundered blindly on until his legs gave way and he collapsed face-down in the dirt. With a jerk of the head Topasio ordered his little force to surround him, vaulting down from their saddles in grim silence.

Surreptitiously studying five stony expressions made Drinian realise he was not alone in finding the scene distasteful. Even the Mate, when he reached down to raise the captive's chin, moved with unwonted gentleness.

"Now then, feller, make this painless for us both; come gladly and we'll list you as a volunteer, pay your bounty with no questions asked," he murmured, barely audible above the menacing scrape of Crain's sword easing from its scabbard. "Name, age, birthplace – that's all we need to know. Ours is a good ship, and if the Old Man's a cussed devil at times, he's as good a seaman as the King boasts. Come quietly, that's the way."

"No!" Throwing off Topasio's hand the prisoner staggered backward with limbs flailing. Crain and Dorix lunged to seize his shoulders in a steely grip, and though he kicked viciously it was a moment's work for Lain to clip rusted irons around his wrists and ankles. "I'm a free man and a subject of the King, I won't be dragged off like a Calormene slave! Take your great filthy hands off me, you wretch! My uncle's at court, he'll protest to His Majesty!"

"By which time you'll be 'alfway to Redhaven, boy, so stop this commotion afore I stop it for yer." Dorix winked, and despite himself Drinian's mouth twitched. "My mother had a place in the late Queen's household, and my sister still serves the Princess," he continued, resuming his usual impeccable enunciation. "But did my connections rescue _me_ five years ago?"

"I never knew your sister was at court!" Drinian burst out. Dorix shrugged.

"The Princess's laundress, but a place at court's a place at court to a commoner! Stop wriggling, man, those irons chafe – I know! With your permission, Mate, I'll hurry this whimpering boor back to Barwell; unless we gag him, he'll set up enough of a caterwauling to send half the country hiding under their beds!"

"We'd best all turn back." Their captive was a puny specimen, Drinian considered, gladly wheeling his horse back toward the coast at Topsasio's command. "Poor pickings we've found today; I'll make them loose-lipped swindlers at the yard smart for sendin' out word before us! Lead the way, Drinian, these damned woods are thick enough to make an albatross doubt its way!"

* * *

It took days for him to shake off the impotent horror of the manhunt, though Drinian damned himself for a sentimental fool. Dismissed for a month's leisure when the galleon was hauled back to her proper element, he was alarmed to discover his spirits soaring to be travelling inland, a reversal of the natural order he could attribute only to the sullen presence of Berix at the breakfast table.

Nobody was expecting him at Westerwood. Skirting the southern boundary of his uncle's lands, Drinian dismounted and led his grey gelding through the garden gate and left it to amble as it would while he knelt on the springy turf below Aunt's weeping cherry tree. There was no sign of the ground ever having been disturbed and, as he ran his hands lovingly across her grave, he was grateful. Mamma had peace, and he could sit undisturbed, silently relating his adventures without anyone coming to mock his private fears.

"I'm a Seaman now; almost an officer," he said aloud, blinking at the crisp sound of the words on autumnal air. "Oh Mamma, I wish you were here!"

She was not, he reminded himself sternly, and he was almost fourteen: old enough to assume control of his estates were Miraz not an immovable obstacle. Swallowing the lump that dug into his windpipe, Drinian dragged himself upright, snatched his horse's bridle and strode across the garden toward the stable yard, forcing out a broken whistle as he went.

A slight figure darted across his vision. "Warin!" he yelled, picking up his pace. "Oh don't _dawdle_, Scimitar, did I not promise you better stabling than you see at Barwell tonight?"

"Drin? By the Mane of Aslan, Master never said you were coming!" Clutching his neck, the young stable hand blushed to the tips of his prominent ears. "Sorry" he squeaked, giving an experimental cough before trying again, an octave lower this time. "Master says I'm turned into a one-boy musical troupe!"

"When did it start?" Drinian gave his shoulder a sympathetic clout that stopped him dead as the smaller boy lurched forward. "And I swore I'd never do that!"

"What?" The short word went up from beginning to end. Drinian grimaced.

"Slap a fellow on the back hard enough to send him stumbling, of course! And don't fret – your voice will settle soon enough."

"As yours has?" Warin eyed him sceptically. Drinian laughed.

"Aye, in the last months." He rubbed his throat, startled into a grin in recalling the rough teasing of shipmates who knew no better way to buttress against embarrassment. Warin grabbed him by the upper arm and yelped. "What?"

"By the Lion, I'll feel a proper scrawny beggar beside you, these shirt seams are fit to burst! An' what's the stripe on your sleeve here?"

"Promotion already, lad?" Booted and spurred for his daily gallop, the Lord Dar burst out of the servants' door, his ruddy colour burnished by a season spent, his nephew gathered, mostly in the fields. "Come within, your aunt's in the parlour composing a letter to my damned mincing cousin – right glad she'll be of cause to set her pen aside! Lion bless me, you're become a giant!"

"Else you're turned into a Dwarf, Sir!" Laughing he allowed himself to be bear-hugged, resigned to having his burgeoning muscles and deepened voice exclaimed over again. "Hardly credit to me, mind," he protested, giving Warin a friendly wave before he could be dragged into the house. "The one's nature – as it might be kind to remind your stable boy – and the other consequence of daily battling with sail ropes and pump handles! You look well, Uncle."

"I potter on, despite the gout," Dar boomed happily. "Old fool of a physician says riding makes it worse, but I refuse to allow it! Katharina, we've a young man for company – keep the maids in their kitchens, he's more handsome than the usual run of doddering fools that call on us!"

"Uncle!" Drinian had believed himself beyond blushing, but the combination of his relation's enthusiasm and the coquettish glance of a red-haired kitchen girl passing by proved how wrong he had been.

Perhaps, he mused, digging his nails into his palms in readiness for Aunt's inevitable effusions, he ought to have been less dutiful and accepted Marix's offer of a cot above the sailcloth merchant's warehouse for his holiday instead.


	29. Chapter 28

_**TWENTY EIGHT**_

"My Lord Coltrix, Master Zarn, bid you welcome aboard!" The gilt buttons of his best uniform flashing, Kolin bent from the waist before two middle-aged and portly men in King Nain's subdued livery as they huffed their way up the _Tiger's_ gangplank. "As required by His Majesty, we are ready to sail the moment you command it: will you allow me to present my officers?"

"All in good time, my dear fellow." Coltrix bustled directly past the astonished captain, with Zarn, document rolls slipping from the battered satchel on his shoulder scampering in his scented wake. "I assume you have accommodation made ready for us? His Majesty demands frequent reports on our progress; I must write before we sail."

"Can't be much progress to report this far from Tashbaan," Wat rumbled in what he considered to be a whisper. Kolin's shoulders sagged. Coltrix pursed his flabby lips.

"Your men have a reputation for good behaviour, Captain: I trust they will not _damage_ it in the presence of His Majesty's representatives," he trilled, fixing the offender with a censorious stare. Wat gave vent to a mammoth sniff.

Drinian aimed a steel-toed boot at his ankle. The Captain managed a strained smile.

"My crew are rough mariners, my Lord, with no knowledge of the diplomatic world. I beg you excuse their coarse ways. Drinian, perhaps you will escort our passengers to their cabins?"

"Aye, Captain." He clipped out the standard phrase, holding himself at strict attention under the rheumy scrutiny of the noble lord. "If you would be kind enough to follow me, gentlemen."

"Rough mariners, eh?" Zarn had a quavering, high-pitched voice, that of a querulous woman, Drinian decided. "_That_ is the elocution of a gentleman! I have a desk in my chambers, I hope?"

"The Mate's cabin is not large enough to accommodate extraneous furnishing, sir, but the Captain has arranged for a table to be placed on deck each morning." Flashing a guileless smile over his shoulder as he pattered down the hatch from the poop, Drinian allowed himself to savour the man's horrified expression. "This is the Captain's cabin, my Lord."

"Thank you, young man." Coltrix made no move. Repressing the urge to roll his eyes, Drinian leaned across and shoved the door inward.

"I _see_." Saucer-eyed the ambassador surveyed the square wooden box, taking in the single high-backed chair and desk bolted to the floor and the bare cot which swung from the bulkhead. "The rest of my rooms?"

"My Lord?" He cocked his head, assuming what he hoped was an innocent facade.

"My dining space; accommodation for the servants who are bringing my possessions; an area where I might take my leisure. Your _fine speech_ is deceiving, young man, if you cannot appreciate the absolute necessity of such things to a gentleman on his sovereign's business!"

"Your lordship's servants and belongings will be accommodated below with the crew – and the officers, who have surrendered their quarters for your convenience." They were shaken by his haughtiness. _Good_, he thought, consciously relaxing his balled fists. "Should you wish to exchange your present quarters for others, I dare say the Boson will be happy to oblige, but I should warn you, these are the only private cabins we carry."

"Then where do the crew sleep?" Zarn demanded.

"Our hammocks are slung below, sir. Meals are taken on the maindeck in all weathers, but don't be alarmed: conditions are unseasonably mild at present."

"His Majesty would surely expect his emissaries to be housed in the best conditions possible," Coltrix stuttered, wringing his damp hands. Drinian bit hard against the inside of his cheek.

"His Majesty may be assured they are, sir, but _Tiger_ is a ship of war, not a pleasure cruiser. If you will excuse me, we're about to get under weigh and I have duties to attend."

"Then they may wait." Even in the cabin's shadows he could see perspiration dribbling down the fat official's brow. "I shall write to Anvard, and I expect my letter despatched before we depart!"

"I will inform the Captain, sir." When Coltrix mopped his brow Drinian spied ink stains on thumb of forefinger; an inveterate report writer, he guessed, excusing himself before disgust could leak into his face. A _pen-merchant_, as Father would have said, raised to noble rank as reward for assiduous service and incapable of breaking his clerk's habits. A faithful servant to King Nain no doubt, but an infernal irritant to the rest of society!

The Captain confirmed his impression with a roll of the eyes. "Perhaps you might care to write to Anvard yourself, my Lord of Etinsmere," he drawled, the title's use bringing activity around the poop to a standstill. "You_ do_ outrank Coltrix by several degrees, I believe."

"Aye, Captain." A shudder of satisfaction seemed to emanate from the hull itself. People turned back to their tasks with smiles on their faces. "Permission to delay reporting to my duty station, Sir?"

"Granted. Topasio! Have a rider standing ready to carry _two_ letters to Anvard."

Kolin tore a page from the ship's log; Darin was sent to fetch melted wax from the galley. Wetting the end of his quill, Drinian scratched two lines into the page before folding it and applying the imprint of his signet ring to the seal. "You are extremely kind, Sir, to grant me permission to write," he said loudly, his sharp eye catching the first outward twitch of the hatch. Kolin's jaw creaked ominously into an unaccustomed beam.

"A pleasure; I'll wager my Lord Coltrix will not object to your missive travelling with his own. Their Highnesses will be delighted to have word from you."

"Their _Royal_ Highnesses, Captain?" Zarn's shrill question sliced the air, his pale grey eyes widening at the names inked across the page. "This young fellow is acquainted with His Highness the Prince?"

Drinian bowed smartly. "Have your courier convey my respectful greeting to His Majesty," he said, turning the request into an insouciant command. "Oh! I am Drinian, Lord of Etinsmere. Captain, I believe these gentlemen were under some misapprehension…."

"No longer, I think." Kolin actually grinned. "All hands, take your stations! You might wish to instruct your messenger directly, Master Zarn; the tide's in our favour, and we cannot delay His Majesty's business another night, can we?"

* * *

"The look on 'is fat little face!" Darin crowed, knocking back his tot in a single mouthful. "Fair thought 'e'd topple over the side when you come out with your proper title, Drin!"

"No such luck." Perched on the corner of a boatbox beside Crain, his neck twisted to avoid the large ham hock swinging from the planking above, he sipped his own measure cautiously, appreciating its warm slide to his belly while detesting the rawness of the taste. "It was likelier I would when the Old Man used it!"

"What did you write, anyhow?" his neighbour demanded. "If you're not too high-and-mighty to tell us, o' course."

"Naught of importance. _Dear Corin and Anelia, your father's representatives are a pair of pompous ninnies, warmest wishes, Drinian_."

Their rowdy laughter echoed in the confined space, winning sleepy protests from shipmates already swaying in their hammocks. "'Ope the Prince shows it to 'is Majesty, then," Darin declared. "Oi, Berix! If you're not drinkin' your tot, show some civility an' pass it along the line!"

"'s not supposed to be transferred." Both hands around his tin mug the newest crewman glowered.

"An' if there's any goin' free, it should come to me afore you, presser." Wat leaned from his cot with teeth bared. Darin heaved himself to his feet.

"An why might that be? You wasn't a volunteer when you first come aboard yourself."

"I wasn't there o' my own free will, but I took the bounty when it were offered, so accordin' to the rules…"

"Since when did you obey rules where liquor's concerned?"

Feet shuffled and hammocks were pulled hastily back. "Darin, if Mate comes on his round now you'll be dragged up for punishment afore breakfast," Sarin warned, his restraining hand shoved away. "An' the rules say if a fellow don't finish 'is tot, it goes back in the barrel for tomorrow. Let well alone."

"Better I 'ave it than Wat; 'e's pickled inside already."

"Not so pickled I can't break your neck with one 'and."

"Like to see you try it!"

"Well the rest of us wouldn't." To his own astonishment Drinian found himself between two hardened brawlers, pushing against the chest of each. "In the Lion's name, look at yourselves! Aye, smash each others' noses if you wish; Master Coltrix would be _delighted_, I'll wager, to write a full report on naval punishment for His Majesty. Berix, toss that damned tot into the bilge water; let 'em lick it off the planking if they must!"

Ominous silence swallowed the echo of his voice. Wat's raised arms dropped to his sides.

"Aye, do as 'e says, you cringing damned lubber," he grunted, giving Darin a friendly shove toward his hammock. "Some o' us worked 'ard today; I'm for me cot. Goodnight Drin."

"Goodnight." Tumbling into his hammock at least spared the humiliation of their seeing his knees give way. _What in the name of Aslan were you thinking of?_ He berated himself, turning his face to the bulkhead. If either of the two big men had been sufficiently riled…

But they had backed away. People – even the King – had said Papa wore an air of authority as most men did their shirts. Could it be in a small way he had inherited a little of that precious gift?

Perhaps, he mused, allowing his eyes to drift shut. But he would tread warily around Wat and Darin for a day or two. It would not do to press such men too far.


	30. Chapter 29

_**TWENTY NINE**_

The farther south they sailed, the deeper blue the Bight of Calormen became and the balmier the air that kissed his burnished cheek each morning when he raced to his station as forward lookout. Though he had to skip around Coltrix on his morning stroll, and Zarn slumped over his writing table at the mast's foot, Drinian could dismiss them as mild inconveniences. The Captain was unfailingly courteous, his quarrelsome messmates bore no grudge for his stopping a potential fight, and though others considered the expanse of empty ocean dull, he found that he savoured _Tiger's_ total isolation.

Swinging idly from the iron staple fastened into the galleon's prow he allowed the knotted line with its weighted lead to slide between his fingers. "No bottom at fifty," he sang out, reeling it deftly in. The Bight glinted brilliantly below him; a lone Galleon Bird briefly cast its slender shadow, its wings motionless as it rode the air's currents. Drinian lifted his head, following its southerly progress and marvelling as he often did at its unflinching certainty. There was no land for a hundred leagues ahead, yet the bird's route never deviated. Lucky the mariner who could chart his course with such assurance!

"Is that a rock breaking the waves?" he wondered, stretching as far out over the water as he dared. With his free hand he fumbled backward for his telescope, peering toward the mysterious brown mottled obstruction. "Officer of the watch! Looks like a rock breaking the surface dead ahead - no wait! It's moving!"

"What's that?" He was thankful to hear the gruff bass of Marix coming back to him; if he was wrong, the Boson would be the most generous of the officers to an eager subordinate's mistake. Handing over his telescope, Drinian jabbed a finger toward the lump raised off the starboard bow.

"Look! And another!" he yelped. Marix dropped his glass with a clatter, cupped his hands to his mouth and loosed a mighty howl toward the galleon's stern.

"Helmsman, hard a-port! Sailmen away! Summon the Captain, we've a sea serpent ahead!"

"Really?" Drinian seized his telescope again, straining to stare at a whole series of arches breaking the waves as the ship heeled to a safer course. "In Narnia, we're told they belong to fairy tales!"

"If they did, these damned waters would be safer." As if it felt their scrutiny the monster eased itself skyward, rearing amidst a broiling pool of ocean with pointed head cocked. Barnacles clung to its scaly hide, and by adjusting the focus of his glass Drinian could see scimitar-curved teeth that clashed as the beast worked its massive jaws. "That's a full-grown adult; as well you called when you did! Keep watchin' it, and if he moves this way, holler. Cap'n, you see it?"

"I do." Kolin had ghosted to the fo'c'sle unnoticed, but so fascinated was he by the horror towering high as the fighting top a league away that Drinian would not have noticed a Calormene battle phalanx storming aboard. "My compliments to the lookout - you have a good eye, Etinsmere."

"Thank you, Sir." And he would never be unconcerned by a glimpse of round brownish rocks again, Drinian promised himself. Though it might not be visible for long, keeping a wary eye on the creature's activities while it remained above the surface was a more thrilling way of passing the morning than hearing the Lord Coltrix drone (for the dozenth time) about his magnificent trade negotiation with the Confederation of the Seven Isles a hundred and fifty years ago!

* * *

At last the lively roll of the Bight gave way to the sluggish brown flow of the Great River, forcing _Tiger_ to groan her laborious way west against the current. The sail fell uselessly in the still air, and the men were organised into four companies of oarsmen taking turns to haul the ship's great bulk along day and night. Drinian found ample excuse to evade the frustrated dignitaries, to whom his exalted rank made _His Highness's friend_ a magnet. When not pulling on an oar or attending to his duties on deck, he was too exhausted to do more than grunt, chew a dry crust of bread, and sleep.

The country inching past offered little distraction, even when the fine drizzle which had accompanied their landward turn dissolved on the humidity of the southern air. Flat and featureless pasture without so much as a hamlet to break the monotony, it emphasised as no map ever could the vastness of the Tisroc's territory; and thus, according to King Nain's ambassadors, the paramount importance of the enterprise upon which they were embarked.

"They say a mere fifty men own all the land we pass," Coltrix observed, wiping his inky fingers against the new-polished brass of the poop rail. Drinian slid a worried glance to the Captain, but Kolin merely nodded.

"And forty nine of _them_ own their possession to the will of the Tisroc," he added drily. "We expect to meet our Calormene escort at dawn tomorrow; Drinian, you will be at your station for first light – and Topasio, you'll ensure the men hold their tongues unless spoken to. My Lord Coltrix is particularly anxious there are no _silly misunderstandings_ in the first stages of his embassy."

"Aye, Cap'n." The Archenlandish officers – himself included, Drinian realised with delight – were engaged in an unspoken conspiracy to mock the preening emissary as much as they dared before he recognised their disdain. By the Mate's toothy grin, he was not alone in expecting the game to continue all the way to Tashbaan.

"We dare not permit these ignorant fellows to offend our hosts, my dear Captain; their customs are very different to ours." Coltrix's chest expanded under their respectful murmurs. "And His Imperial Majesty has never extended the courtesy of an escort to the very gates of his capital to _any_ embassy before ours. Of course, Captain – my Lord Drinian – it _is_ unfortunate you will be prohibited from experiencing the wonders of Tashbaan for yourselves… foreigners are not encouraged to visit the Imperial citadel."

"Your Lordship is very kind, but we have duties aboard which would prevent our indulging His Imperial Highness's – beg pardon, _Majesty's _hospitality. Officers of the watch! Swing your glasses to the larboard bank and inspect the small town we're approaching! A Coronet to the first man that spies the fortress of Majalara; and look carefully, my Lord Coltrix assures me it's artfully concealed among the hovels –_ houses_."

Hovels, Drinian considered, was the more appropriate term; low and squat with turf roofs and rough walls, the cottages of Majalara would have been scorned by the meanest of Etinsmere labourers. And if the shoddy pile of rocks on the eastern side was known locally as a fortress, he doubted it would take more than the armed crew of the _Tiger_ alone to overpower the whole of Tashbaan!

* * *

Daybreak saw him in full uniform at his station, squinting through the clearing mist for Calormen's escort ships approaching from the capital. The wind had come to their aid, freshening from the south east and drawing the men whooping with relief from the oars. Any laggard who could find an excuse, it seemed, was loitering on deck awaiting his hail. "Calormenes are rarer than mermaids in the Windin' Arrow along our normal routes," Marix hissed, pretending to be busy with his charts. "Can't blame a fellow for wantin' to catch a glimpse o' the dark devils, can you?"

"Coltrix would."

"All the more reason to stand an' stare, Drin! Lion Alive, there's actually folk workin' in the fields hereabout, I was beginnin' to think they was banished. Hi, Darin! Do the wenches in _our_ fields dress like that?"

Startled, Drinian swung his telescope toward the starboard bank, the instrument suddenly heavy against petrified fingers. A dozen lissom girls scampered on the shore, their golden midriffs bared between bright pantaloons and short white blouses. Long hair as black and glossy as his own streamed loose over slender shoulders, and brilliant white teeth flashed excited smiles as hands lifted to wave at the staring seamen.

"I wish!" he heard Darin chortle. "Cap'n's comin!"

Instantly every eye turned forward. Drinian suspected he was not alone in surreptitiously sliding a starboard glance with every third heartbeat, savouring the sight of the laughing girls as they skipped and capered for the benefit of _Tiger's_ excited crew.

"S'pose there's truth in the old sayin', then," Berix grunted, his usual slouch ironed out for the benefit of his audience. "Never saw the farm girls blow kisses my way afore I got kidnapped."

"The word is _pressed_, an' there's truth enough." Wat whistled affirmation through the gap in his front teeth. "Dunno why, but the lasses does 'ave a likin' for a sailin' man. Even them foreign wenches, by the look o' things! Drin! Dead ahead, lad, the Old Man'll 'ave yer 'ide if ogling the natives makes you slow wi' the 'ail!"

"Sail in sight!" Blushing to the roots of his hair, Drinian loosed the necessary shout without troubling to check its accuracy. Wat thumped him hard on the back, his standard mode of apology for teasing, while the flurry of activity the three words caused gave his young friend precious moments to gather his shattered composure.

Enraptured by the play of sunlight on their abundant flesh, the girls had thoroughly distracted him from his duty; but for Wat, the Calormene vessels might have crashed alongside with boarding parties screaming from the bow and he, the ship's lookout, would not have detected them.

Pursing his lips, he focussed his narrowed stare on the approaching ships, willing the warmth in his belly to dissolve. He had seen pretty women often enough before; the sight of flat, bronzed bellies and sweet oval faces kissed by soft sunlight ought not be so fascinating!

He remembered Caspian flinching from the proffered hand of a dance partner; himself and Ninian scrubbing their cheeks when the Glasswater sisters had obeyed their father's instruction to kiss their guests farewell. And he recalled Marix's conspiratorial leer when Wat and Crain rolled back from their last shore leave; the smirk identical to Wat's own in the face of his very recent discomfort.

He wondered briefly whether the change – and the comparison – was more thrilling or alarming. Then Coltrix and the Captain loomed at the corner of his vision, and with a gusty sigh he forced his attention back to the approaching ships.

Squat and ugly vessels, with banks of oars crabbing through the water on either side to propel them, giving them the look of gigantic centipedes crawling over the river's smooth surface. The castles fore and aft were high but constricted, as if the space required was given grudgingly by shipwrights convinced they ought to fit in a few more rowers' benches. The mast, so far as he could tell, was for appearance only.

The oarsmen themselves, visible through the oar slots, were hunched over their tools, heads bowed as if they were desperate to avoid the eye of the officer who strutted among them, flicking a broad leather strap between his hands. A single oar flailed for an instant; a stroke missed by an exhausted man. The strap arched downward, forcing the air from the unfortunate's lungs and sending him sprawling over his oar.

From the deck of the _Tiger_ a low hum of horror began to rise.

"As the Lord Coltrix has remarked, gentlemen, the habits of our hosts are unlike ours." Kolin's weak drawl was gravelled, but the words themselves were admirably neutral. "I trust even the unwilling among our company will better appreciate their good fortune in serving aboard an Archelandish ship henceforward."

"Aye, there's much to be said for servin' as a free-born man," Topasio agreed, giving Darin an amiable jab in the ribs as he ambled to join his commander. "If you'd care to desert to the Calormene service, me gloomy pressers, I'll wager a year's pay them fellers would gladly fill your berths! Damned great filthy dog, there's a metal buckle to the villain's strap!"

"I trust your deputy will be more civil when our hosts come aboard, Captain?" Coltrix's brow gleamed with a sheen of perspiration the morning hardly merited. "Disapprove as we may of Calormen's more _ancient_ habits, we hear the _lash_ remains an instrument of discipline in _all_ naval services."

"A punishment of last resort, my Lord, as His Majesty's instructions make clear: and one not required aboard my ship these five years past." With a sharp wave of the hand Kolin sent his men to their docking positions, never taking his steely stare from the approaching Calormenes. "The Tisroc's representative will come aboard, I understand, and sail with us to Tashbaan?"

"Aroshin Tarkaan is His Imperial Majesty's _personal_ emissary; any ill-will toward his country's customs may endanger the success of my embassy. Your men, Captain, will hold their tongues unless addressed, and give no sign of resentment however the Tarkaan sees fit to conduct himself."

Kolin, for all his years at sea, had retained a pallid complexion. Drinian had never seen so much colour staining the Captain's cheek; all the blood from his narrowed lips, he guessed, had to flow _somewhere _in the face of the challenge. "My men's conduct I shall vouch for, my Lord; for so long as _you_ will stand for the ambassador's," he growled. "Topasio, back the sail! Grappling parties to the entryport! Look lively, you slovenly laggards! Let's have no ill report of our indiscipline reach Tashbaan!"


	31. Chapter 30

_**THIRTY**_

The Tisroc's personal emissary proved to be a tall, rangy man with a shrewd hatchet of a face and a straight nose of immense length: all the better, Drinian mused, bowing stiffly with breath indrawn against the cloud of musk which wafted from the man's robes, for sneering down at the unworthy. Dripping with rubies and gold, Aroshin Tarkaan humbly beseeched (in a tone of languidly imperial command) that no time be wasted on needless ceremony. "His Highest Imperial Majesty, my master Tisroc Tambolan (may he live for ever) commands me present the ambassador of his most honoured Barbarian kinsman Nain at the first moment, so benevolent is his goodwill toward that noble supplicant for his favour. You will stand with me, my Lord Coltrees—"

"_Coltrix_, my Lord," his neighbour, suddenly smaller, more rotund and even less significant than usual, almost whined. The Tarkaan lifted a single fine black brow, but made no correction.

"The Captain will order his men to leave the forward castle for our exclusive use. Your servant may attend, should you desire a written record of our discussions."

Zarn's eyes popped at the dismissive reference. Nearby, Drinian identified the unmistakable sound of a smothered snigger.

As an officer in training he ought to have scowled at the offender. However, that was difficult while desperately stifling a grin himself.

"Topasio, instruct the men; the fo'c'sle will not be scrubbed this morning. All hands are to attend their duties without approaching that part of the ship."

"Aye, Sir." The Mate howled his orders the length of the galleon. Whether he took greater satisfaction from Coltrix's or Aroshin's wince, Drinian dared not guess.

The sail had to be eased, then furled, holding _Tiger's_ pace to the stately crawl of her escort; one ahead and one astern, the hoarse shouts of their officers urging the oarsmen along interspersed with the ominous flick and thwack of the whip slicing the air. "And they call _us_ barbarians," Dorix muttered, careful to avert his eye from the most recent victim of routine cruelty ahead. "Old_ Coldtrees_ had best mind his flapping tongue when he reaches Tashbaan – do they still go in for boiling in oil in these parts?"

"Ask our _guest_ and we may find out." From his waxed and dyed beard to his curve-toed shoes, Aroshin Tarkaan emanated indolent disdain for his animated fellow emissary. One could hardly blame an intelligent man for that, Drinian acknowledged; but for negotiation to succeed, surely both sides ought to begin by showing enthusiasm for it?

Lunch was delayed, the galleon drawn across to the farther bank of the river where a sheer black rock loomed from deep beds of broad and glossy reeds. "Tash's Redoubt, beneath which your vessel will await your return, my noble companion," the Tarkaan intoned, evidently having given up twisting his tongue around Coltrix's name. "None but the Guardian of the Flame dare venture to this sacred place – he will come at dusk to ensure the fire burns bright to guide him should Tash, the inexorable, the invincible, deign to honour his servants beyond their meagre merits. This divine rock is his final resting place before the Great Temple of Tashbaan itself, and the fires burn throughout the night to give him guidance."

"Wouldn't have thought a deity needed it," Berix whispered. "Coo! How's a fellow to do business wi' addle-pates what still believe in the old gods, eh?"

Marix glared at him. "Not that I don't agree, mind," he muttered, risking the wrath of Topasio, impatiently awaiting the end of his watch at the tiller. "We're to moor between the galleys, Mate, that right?"

"Aye." Topasio lifted a sharp salute to signal the appearance of the Captain's sandy head at the top of the poop ladder. "Ten fathoms o' water reported, Sir. We'll have no difficulty anchorin' as close to that damned rock as we're told."

"_Asked_, Topasio. My Lords, if you care to take your lunch on the fo'c'sle…"

"Thank you, Captain." Coltrix rubbed his plump hands. "My dear Tarkaan, allow me…"

His appeal struck the top of the Calormene's turban. Without awaiting his official host's invitation, Aroshin Tarkaan was down the ladder and striding in a flurry of orange skirts toward the waiting table. "Stand aside, slave!" he snarled, shoving the unfortunate Sarin from his path hard enough to make the man stumble. "On _our_ ships, captains _restrain_ such insolent pups from their masters' sight!"

"And in _our_ country the laying of hand on a man in violence is abhorred," Coltrix mumbled, agitated enough to miss his footing on the ladder. Three men sprinted to lift him from his ungainly sprawl, dusting him down with more vigour than tenderness, loudly enquiring as to his health and exclaiming their relief at his flustered reassurances. Waiting until he had hobbled forward beyond earshot, Kolin leaned over the rail, wagging a finger at his tittering crewmen.

"Your point is made, men," he said placidly. "Now hurry to your messes before your shipmates steal your beef. By my charts, we'll reach Tashbaan before sunset, and our ship will be our own again."

"Not afore time, Cap'n; can't be doin' with all this diplomatic airy-fairyin'." Wat spoke for them all, and in that instant Drinian's appreciation for his unusual commander soared. Kolin might be burdened by the misfortunes of his birth. He might be moody, even sour; but he was honest, he was fair and he knew the mettle of his company as well as any captain that ever sailed.

Perhaps, he mused, that was why Uncle Dar had been so determined to place him aboard the _Tiger_. He certainly had not secured the berth with thoughts of diplomatic uselessness in mind!

* * *

Through the afternoon, his opinion of the journey improved. Flat cornfield gave way to landscaped gardens rolling down to private jetties from vast, gleaming marble villas: the country retreats of Calormen's elite lining both banks where the river narrowed. Stately figures strolled between groves of orange and lemon trees, a sweet citrus tang wafting over the water. At the riverside, servant girls in silk and gauze knelt with their mistresses' laundry, pausing to smile and stare at the sailors gazing avidly back. The male servants, pruning flower-laden bushes and sweeping paths, spared the passing vessels barely a glance.

"Funny place; only the women are friendly," Darin observed, smacking his lips at the flirtatious curtseys being made by a group of those giggling young ladies on the port bank. Drinian, shielding his eyes for a better view, laughed.

"Perhaps their _friendliness_ makes the menfolk jealous?" he asked, the last word ending on a squeak as one particularly bold female wrenched off her blouse to wave like a favour. His neighbour, seizing Drinian's abandoned telescope for a closer look, chortled.

"Aye, that manner o' kindliness'd win the wench a pretty fortune on Barwell quay! Pity we're not to enter Tashbaan, Drin – wager these Calormene girls'd teach us an exotic trick or two!"

"Attend your duties, men, and be thankful you'll have leisure in your home port – yes, even you, Darin, your conduct is _usually_ exemplary. Only remember; two weeks, and not a day more unless you would have all the constables in the kingdom on your heels!"

"Aye, Cap'n. Thank 'ee, Sir." Forgetful of the show on shore, the sailor fairly skipped away to his duties, leaving Kolin to smile his rare, lopsided smile unobserved.

"Remember the lesson, Etinsmere," he snarled, recalled to the boy's mute presence by the wavering of a deck shadow. "A man trusted will repay good faith in kind. Though it pains me to say it, decisions of this nature will be yours one day."

"Thank you, Captain." The change of climate, Drinian considered, had done strange things to the _Tiger's_ officers. Topasio and Marix speaking out of turn, and the Captain bestowing compliments! "Never happen in colder waters," he breathed, making sure to collect his telescope before racing aft for his turn on watch.

That it had happened at all would buttress his spirits enough for a thousand freezing nights on tedious Northern patrols.

* * *

The sun was sinking over the Great Desert when the hail came down from the fighting top, sending every man that could justify curiosity with some form of duty forward with a glass to stare. Lancing spears of sunlight from its golden dome at the crown of Tashbaan's conical island stood the Temple of Tash, with the great barrack block of the Imperial Palace on one side and the rugged ancient citadel on the other. Wide boulevards criss-crossed the upper slopes, while lower down thickset buildings huddled together like squatting dogs in a storm. A great stone bridge of arches linked the island with both sides of the river, and (most importantly to Drinian's critical eye) restricted the great ships of the Imperial Fleet to the near side of the capital. A dozen of them – all galleys, all manned with a score of officers craning from their decks to gawp – dominated the western approach to the anchorage, protecting a flotilla of merchant brigs and barges moored in chaos close to the city walls.

"Don't like the look o' the place," Sarin muttered with a countryman's disdain. "Cramped an' overcrowded; probably stinks like an open drain, too!"

"Most likely – in the lower streets anyway." The grand streets toward the summit were lined with grandiose mansions set in lush gardens filled with fruit trees; fragrant enough, Drinian considered, but lacking the natural wooded grandeur of Etinsmere, or even the pastoral freshness of the Westerwood lands. "Anyway, _we_ shan't be finding out! _Coltrees _is about to disembark: it appears we're not to pollute Tashbaan with our _Barbarian_ presence."

"No, we're to cower under some damned rock in a rotten reed bed, watched by a surly crew o' rogues that'd have us chained to oars in no time. There again—" Sarin brightened considerably at the thought. "—we're rid o' those damn fool ambassadors for a while."

"Possibly for ever if the Tisroc takes against 'em." Coltrix might be a buffoon, but his presence no longer offended Drinian. It was the contemptuous insolence of Aroshin Tarkaan he hoped never to encounter again.


	32. Chapter 31

_**THIRTY ONE**_

With Coltrix and Zarn small dots aboard a Calormene gig the order was given to bring _Tiger_ and her escorts about, surging on the strong current for their isolated anchorage below Tash's Redoubt. The sheer black cliff soared out of thick reed beds clinging to foul-smelling mud flats, while the country beyond lay desolate and marshy save for the narrow stone trackway along which at sunset each day the Guardian of the Flame would amble on his tubby donkey. The Archenlanders watched him clamber to the top with fascination on the first evening, the bolder offering wagers on how far the middle-aged official would fall from the uneven path winding to the summit. Every man aboard their escorts, on the other hand, stared studiously across at the bland flatness of the opposite bank.

"Is it ill luck to watch the fire start?" Drinian wondered, squinting at the first smouldering of peat and greenish wood, a pinprick against a purpling sky. "Or are we proving ourselves an unmannerly crowd of barbarians by watching a secret ceremony?"

"One way to find out." Wat leaned perilously over the side rail, both hands cupped around his full lips. "Oi, me dark-faced friends! Are we like to be struck by a thunderbolt for watchin' yer deity's fire get lit?"

A dozen swarthy faces lifted to stare for a moment before being anxiously averted. "Sociable bunch, ain't they?" Wat commented, aiming the observation at the nearest galley's poop. The officer on watch, distinguishable from his subordinates by the gold thread woven through his robe, tensed visibly.

"And not likely to be rendered more civil by provocation." He could hardly dispute his friend's opinion, but an alien instinct stopped agreement on Drinian's tongue. "We're a fair way from Barwell now, Wat; a fellow could meet Lion only knows what fate in _hostile_ waters."

"Aye, an' they've a reputation for cuttin' off noses handsomer than mine." Thumbing the offending orifice toward their neighbours, Wat hauled himself back from the bulwark, the affronted officer forgotten. "Mebbe that mincin' halfwit Zarn'll be missin' them flappin' ears of his when 'e comes aboard! Did you not know the simperin' clot reported me to the Old Man for cussin' when 'e pushed afore me in the galley queue, Drin?"

"No, but I'm hardly surprised." A horn echoed from both their escorts, and instantly the deck lanterns were dimmed, black figures scurrying below decks. "They must have a curfew even on board, poor devils! Time for me to take watch, I fancy. If you _must_ start a squabble with out hosts, be kind enough not to do it until Marix takes my place at midnight!"

"'Ardly be much of a fight wi' them frightened ghosts!" Chortling, the sailor rolled toward his hammock, leaving Drinian to patter up to the poop with a rueful smile across his face.

* * *

Before lunch the next day he was despatched with two oarsmen in _Tiger's_ tiny gig to row around the galleon taking soundings of the water's depth, lest the wind should blow (the Captain said) and compel them to weigh anchor in haste. Despite the secondary purpose of his mission – to bawl an invitation to the senior Calormene officers to dine aboard the Archenlandish vessel – Drinian suspected an ulterior motive.

By the scornful dismissal of his captain's courtesy, he guessed the Calormenes were at least as mistrustful as he.

Still, a pair of inquisitive sprites peeped through their oar slits to watch his activities, and common courtesy (if not curiosity) compelled him to smile. White teeth flashed from the gloom, and the head of a youth approximately his own age popped through the slot.

Drinian waved. The Calormene waved back, jabbing a long finger upward. Drinian nodded.

"Wha's the blighter mean?" Berix wondered.

"He's anxious lest an officer catch him being neighbourly, I fancy." The youth pointed to the sounding line in Drinian's hands, and obligingly he flicked it upward, allowing a closer look. The same broad grins split two young faces. "The Old Man'd have my hide if he saw – what do you imagine _their_ captains can do?"

"Skin 'em alive, I'll wager." Over Berix's sandy head Wat gave his friend a warning wink. "Coo! I've 'eard tales o' farm 'ands bein' flayed for idleness 'ereabouts: aye, 'ave their skins dried out an' used for parchment, the Tarkaans do"

"Get off!" Berix yelped, goggle-eyed with horror at the prospect of such a fate in his former employment. Whether he understood the exchange or not, their Calormene observer laughed, drawing every Archenlandish eye upward.

A large hand thrust through the oar slit to catch around his throat and yank him viciously into the hold. A shower of cherry stones pattered around the _Tiger's_ defenceless boat, ejected from the mouth of the hand's dull-eyed and jowly owner. "Charming!" Drinian exclaimed, urging his oarsmen to action with a brisk nod. "You might have left the fruit on!" he added, rearing up in the bow to glare at the offender.

He doubted the guffaws of his companions would improve the man's gloomy disposition a jot.

* * *

On the next morning they were despatched again, every man keeping his back deliberately turned from their neighbour vessel. Feeling faintly guilty lest his cohort had been punished for their silent exchange, Drinian avoided the forward oar slots until the last moment.

As the gig nosed into position and the line began to slide between his hands, a cluster of cherries and a small bunch of luscious purple grapes dropped at his feet. Leaving the crew to fall upon them, Drinian shielded his eyes from the sun, peering into the galley's dark gut and instantly picking out a familiar sparkle of teeth. "Quickly, Crain! Hand me an apple!" he hissed.

Without instruction the oarsmen edged their little craft into the galley's lee. Shifting to adjust his aim, Drinian lobbed his gift into the heart of the opening, his quick eye detecting the blur of rapid movement within. A moment later, a grubby handkerchief fluttered through the gap. "'ope 'e don't try eatin' the core as well," Wat rumbled. "Back us off, lads! Least we know some 'o the buggers are friendly!"

"Only the lowly ones." He forced himself to take the necessary sounding before biting into the sweet flesh of a cherry, its juice exploding deliciously against his tongue. "The captains have their orders from the Tisroc – his ministers, anyway! – and they'd keel-haul us, I reckon, before they'd have dinner with the Old Man! Makes me wonder what welcome _Coltrees_ has had."

"Not the one the pompous ninny expected, I fancy." Dorix eased his oar inboard, letting the gig coast to rest beside her mother ship. "What's your money on, Drin? Wat here's laid a full Coronet on his having been boiled in oil for the court's amusement."

"Half-Coronet says he's in a dungeon blamin' that damned scribe for lookin' at a Tarkaan's daughter the wrong way," Crain piped up, smacking his loose lips with feigned relish. "Though Boson says they'd not dare treat King Nain's personal representatives that way."

"However much they may wish to." It cheered the men to wager on ridiculous things, and though the Captain would disapprove Drinian would not spoil their games. "My Half-Coronet – I'm an Etinsmere, tight as a cat's behind as the saying goes – is on a worse fate than either: I'll wager he's allowed ten minutes with the Tisroc, then forced to pass the rest o' the time with Aroshin Tarkaan. Think of it, Wat! Boiling in oil may hurt, but at least there's an end in sight. Hour after hour with _that_ supercilious ninny and I should be preparing the hot pitch myself!"

* * *

Loud were the disappointed groans late on the fourth afternoon when a galley flying all the gaudy banners of the Empire was spied crabbing from Tashbaan toward their anchorage. The rotund figure of Coltrix was quickly identified at the bow, but of Aroshin Tarkaan there was no sign.

_Tiger's_ boat was lowered to fetch the ambassadorial pair, the officers summoned to the siderail and the company sent to cheer from the rigging. Red-faced and puffing, the skirt of his grey gown adorned by an inch-wide border of Tashbaan filth, his Lordship flopped onto the maindeck with a beringed finger already lifted in accusatory point,

"I trust you will have a proper explanation of your company's mischievous conduct for His Majesty, Captain!" he squawked, double chins wobbling with scarce-repressed outrage. "Aye, and your own impertinence, at that! What in the Lion's name compelled you to invite your escorts aboard? Oh, we have had a full report of your wilfulness! Why! Our discussions with the Tisroc were progressing almost – _quite _- amicably before reports of your recklessness began to arrive!"

"Recklessness, my Lord?" In contrast with his irate passenger's puce fury, Kolin was icily controlled. "In our service it is deemed an act of courtesy to offer such an invitation to one's fellow officers; and I received no instruction from Anvard to the contrary."

"The King entrusted this embassy to _me_, you impertinent son of a scullion's brat!" Tears dribbled from the corners of his steely eyes. Drinian, close enough to notice, suspected they were born of frustration that in the face of so gross an insult Kolin's temper did not break.

_His_ would, he acknowledged: but then, Coltrix was probably clerk enough to know the Master of Etinsmere's lineage to be unimpeachable on both sides.

"He did _not_ consider that a captain and company of his own Royal Fleet would so – so _debase_ themselves as to dabble in diplomatic matters. His Eminence the Grand Vizier himself declared – did he not, Zarn? – that any servant of Calormen consorting with a foreign vessel's crew would be most _severely_ punished."

"Your Lordship will remember the Galamaia Accord signed six years ago?" The left side of Kolin's mouth began to droop, an ominous sign any crewman would identify. "During the discussions of the Lord Hastin's embassy, this vessel hosted five senior officers of the Galmian fleet. His Majesty on our return expressed himself delighted with the hospitality offered which – I recall his words precisely – had done much to persuade the Ducal party of Archenland's sincerity. Topasio, bring her about. It would seem our mission has failed. My Lord, if you have specific complaints to make against me or any of my company, perhaps Master Zarn could draw up a fair copy? In the light of our apparent misconduct, I should like to hear some account of your dealings in Tashbaan, the better to defend myself should His Majesty command it on our return."

"Dam' fool prancin' nincompoop!" Wat growled, glaring at the snail's trail of slime and dirt that dropped from the ambassador's hem as he chased the Captain the length of the ship and through the aft hatch. "_Quite_ amicably my foot! Fancy the Tisroc were lookin' for an excuse to rid 'isself o' the yatterin' fool!"

"Small blame to him." With the toe of his boot Drinian flicked a clump of mud off to the side of deck. "Coltrix is a vain secretary trying to play the statesman; too puffed up with his imagined importance to see the Calormenes had no interest in his mission. Pah! D'you think Aroshin would have abused us, or their captains slighted ours, if their master _wanted_ a treaty?"

"No, and His Majesty will understand it – or I hope he will, for the Captain's sake." Dorix sidled up, using Wat's shadow to conceal him from Topasio's hostile gaze. "By Aslan! What a simpering lack-brain Coltrix must be not to see it!"

"Perhaps he does see." Clerks were not raised to the nobility for being fools, however ridiculously some conducted themselves once rank was attained. "But my father was apt to say that weak men never manage reverses well."

"Aye, an' Coltrix is weak as Seven Islands rum – three parts water to one o' spirits." Pleased with his witticism, Wat shuffled off to his duties, leaving a sombre Drinian to reflect on his father's wisdom.

The weak man Lord Tirian had referred to had been a posturing princeling smarting from the dismissal of his marriage proposal to a cousin of King Nain. Drinian suspected Miraz, King of Narnia, had not forgiven the snub despite his brother's granting of the Lady Prunaprismia and all her Beruna lands instead a mere six months later.


	33. Chapter 32

_**THIRTY TWO**_

The effect of Coltrix's report to Anvard was quickly felt. From grand diplomatic missions, _Tiger_ was despatched once more to patrols in the farther seaways, apparently as a defence against looming pirate attack. In three cruises, each more tedious than the last and broken only by squalls of vicious wintry weather, they encountered not a single brigand vessel. Tempers frayed. The Captain withdrew into a surly shell. Shivering inside his heavy boat cloak through one sleet-soaked night watch after another, Drinian found himself longing for a cosy hearth and a quiet bed. Even Westerwood's pastoral monotony appeared (however briefly) preferable to a storm-tossed seaborne disgrace.

Thus when the invitation was presented on their return to Barwell, not even Kolin's resentful reception could keep the smile from his lips. "If it be His Majesty's pleasure to see you at Anvard, Etinsmere, you had best trim that wild mane it pleases you to call _hair_ and shake the creases from your best tunic, I suppose," the Captain drawled, returning the immaculately printed note with a dismissive flick of the wrist. "And be sure to hire a respectable mount in town. No scrimping on a knock-kneed nag to spend on food and finery!"

"No, sir." Careful that his salute be impeccable, Drinian backed out of the cabin before breaking out into a delighted chortle. "Jealous old fool," he declared to Dorix, unnecessarily occupied scrubbing the aft hatch. "Not sure whether to toss me off his ship, or to clap me in irons below to spite all the lords of Anvard!"

"Best make a bolt for it before the old blackguard makes up his mind then. Will you take a letter for my sister, Drin? If you give it to the Princess…"

"Of course, if you can have it written before morning." He braced himself for the older man's grateful slap before bounding up onto the poop to inform the Mate of his permission to leave the ship. "A week at Anvard and I'll be longing to be aboard again, mind," he added, an effective stop to Topasio's teasing grumbles. "Think of it! Two score o' silly landsmen fretting that the wind messes their hair, and Prince Corin tripping one up at every third step! I've instruction to find myself a suitable mount for the journey. Permission to disembark?"

"Aye, granted, an' stay out o' the Cap'n's way when you get back." Chuckling, Topasio waved him to the gangplank, lowered and unguarded: a signal of faith in the general company Drinian doubted the Captain in his current mood would approve. "An' – put a kindly word in for the old bugger with 'is Majesty, will you, lad? He don't care to show it, but Cap'n Kolin feels the disgrace we're in keener than any of us."

* * *

Doubtful though he was that even a monarch as genial as Nain would care for a mere tar's opinion, Drinian had repeated his pledge to the Mate before mounting a strapping bay gelding and clip-clopping inland at first light. Fine, drenching rain swayed like rippling sheets on the chilly breeze, forcing him to keep one hand on his mantle and use the reins for steerage alone as he passed desolate fields, the harvest long since drawn in, and eerily deserted villages hunkered down beside burgeoning streams against the weather's menace.

He ought to be galloping, he knew, desperate to reach a good fire and a convivial meal. Instead he dawdled, savouring the limitless space around himself, the comforting absence of human clamour. Much as he loved his ship, there were times he wished himself a hundred leagues away from the suffocating proximity of his shipmates.

Anvard's turrets spiked the gloom too soon for his taste, and with a gusty sigh he pinned on a smile, kicking his mount into a canter. His invitation had promised the presence of relations around the royal table, after all; and Aunt insisted he would forget all his courtly training if it remained unused too long.

"No bad thing, I'll wager," he murmured, lips turning upward into a fond half-smile as he angled his mount's steps toward the lowered drawbridge. "Considering what the courtiers o' Narnia are become! Hi, usher! Pass word to the chamberlain, if you please, that the Lord Drinian of Etinsmere awaits His Majesty's gracious pleasure. I'll see my horse's needs tended, and wait in the Public Hall."

He was given time to throw off his sodden cloak and bring what order his fingers could contrive to the plastered mass of his black hair before they descended: Uncle Dar, leaning heavily on his left side and booming his distaste for old age and gout, with Aunt Katharina's long hand cupped protectively under his elbow, ready to offer support however unwelcome it might be. Corin's shock of bright hair bobbed behind her, the absurd angles of elbow and knee no longer jabbing like a porcupine's spines to keep his neighbour at a safe distance. His sister, her glossy dark locks twisted into an elaborate pile, sashayed alongside him, the cream satin of her overskirt swaying with each pace to reveal a cerise petticoat spattered with diamonds below; then came two heralds and Lord Barsin, shuffling backward with heads bowed. Then, to the tinny blare of trumpets, King Nain bounded into the arched doorway.

"My Lord of Etinsmere is most welcome," he almost shouted, his light voice drowned in the undignified clamour of greeting. Rolling his eyes at the Princess, Drinian sidestepped his uncle and the Prince, bending his back in a flourishing bow.

"Your Majesty is too kind," he called back, silencing with his stentorian tones the hubbub royalty had been unable to subdue. "Forgive me! I seem to have spent too much time trying to make myself heard over ocean gales."

"Aye, there's vile weather rolls form the east this time o' year, and Your Majesty's old _Tiger_ must creak and groan by now!" Retired from the sea a dozen years, the old Admiral had never recovered the courtly power of soft speech, which made his wife shudder even as it consoled their nephew. "I keep telling that dam' fool Gurin, boy – galleons are not like dinner tables, built to serve down centuries!"

"My husband has lost none of his zeal for Your Majesty's service," the Lady of Westerwood cooed, grasping his arm hard enough, Drinian suspected, to bruise. The King smiled thinly.

"My Lord of Westerwood has earned the right to speak freely in our presence, dear lady; though perhaps as a practical mariner he was too long away from the council chamber when concern about the _expense_ of our small fleet was aired! Now, perhaps we might continue to discuss naval strategy at leisure? We have wine and sweetbreads waiting in the Private Chambers, and my son is most anxious to hear the Lord Drinian's opinion of the Imperial Galleys. We have a good fire blazing, my Lord: welcome tidings, I fancy, after such a ride as yours!"

"Crack-brained folly ever to send such that numbskull Coltrix to a nest of imperial vipers!" Dar hollered, happily oblivious to his wife's distress. Drinian cleared his throat dramatically, drawing as much of the scandalised attention from his indiscreet relation as he could.

"Very welcome, Sire," he pledged, guessing by Anelia's grin that he missed the silken court tone he aimed for, though the whisper of a sigh from Aunt's direction made the effort worthwhile. "As to the Imperial Fleet – even the pressed men admit they'd choose Your Majesty's service over the Tisroc's, aye, even if it means fighting frozen canvas in a howling gale with the Thirty League Rocks looming before the bow! Sail handling's a demon's work, but there's no officer with a club in his hands, just waiting to see a mistake made."

* * *

As the weeks progressed he found it easier to moderate his shipboard tones, and the slither of silk shirts began to seem as natural as the rasp of wool against his skin. Some of the stiffness softened from Aunt Katharina's shoulders when they were alone, returning only when Uncle appeared to offer loud and imprudent opinions on every comment made.

"Your uncle's become an oddity," Corin remarked one freezing afternoon, when sleet and high winds made the King's daily ride to hounds impossible. "Why! He called Barsin the doddering grandson of a stable hand this morning – _most _offended, our venerable Chamberlain is! Of course it's quite true, his mother _was_ younger daughter to my ancestor's Master of the Horse, but really – it's not the _done thing_ to mention it, is it?"

"Small wonder Aunt's so pale; she must go in terror of what he'll say next." Idly Drinian flicked the patterned velvet of the window-seat's drapery. "I notice he hobbles more, too – the gout?"

"Father's physician says he ought to take less rum and not insist upon riding so often." Anelia glanced up from the pair of flowing sleeves she was embroidering with the golden lily of the Royal house. "There! When the furrier has lined them, these will be perfect for the next ball. If Father were to command your captain to release you, Drinian, you _would_ be able to stay."

"I would never ask favours my shipmates could not all claim, Anelia." The _small family suppers_ His Majesty had arranged most evenings were formality enough, and it took all Drinian's strength to control a shudder at the prospect of a full Court Ball. "And think of my poor aunt, trying to control Uncle and I at the same time! _Two_ rude seamen is one more than any ballroom should suffer at the same time!"

"I think you'd sooner not skip and simper with the rest of us," Corin chortled, jabbing him with a bony finger. "And small blame to you! I should run away to sea myself before I'd dance attendance on the Countess of Lionwood again!"

"He stayed within a pace of her all evening with his tongue hanging out when she last came," his sister reported disgustedly. "And _please_ don't monopolise her next time, Corin! People _will_ talk, and she must be past thirty, to say naught of being married (even if the Count _is_ old enough to be her grandfather). We are not children any more, and people _will_ gossip when they see the King's heir fawning over a woman report would make a beauty."

"Don't _you_ think her pretty?" Corin winked at his neighbour. Drinian cocked his head and pursed his lips, feigning contemplation.

"Not particularly." Head held high, the Princess stalked from their cosy ante chamber, letting the heavy oak door swing almost shut on their shouts of laughter. "_Some_ of us are not children, at least!" she shrieked back through the gap. "Oh! Don't _encourage_ him to folly, my Lord, do you not know they already call him Prince Corin Cracked-Pate below stairs? Silly enough to flirt with a nobleman's wife, they say, and make every good subject's prayer_ long life to good King Nain_!"

"That is pleasing to hear, my dear, though better in a humble petition than being screeched through a doorway." Genially smiling, the King peered over his daughter's hunched shoulder at the two boys, both leaping to sober attention before he could enter the room.

Behind him came a spry, pixie-like fellow in his fifties: smaller by half a head than the unimposing king, owner of the brightest green eyes Drinian had ever seen and a complexion dark and lined as weathered timber. "My Lord Drinian, allow me to present a companion for your journey to ship in the morning. Captain Ram, this is Seaman Etinsmere, the youngest and (so we hear) most promising of your ship's company. Captain Kolin is transferred to the galleon _Anvard_, my Lord; I dare say his successor will have much to ask about your ship."

"Naught of importance, Your Majesty; I'll have the measure of the lady in a day or two, and know her the better for exploring first-hand." The voice emerging from Ram's creased throat was unexpectedly deep, the teeth showed by his broad smile large and gleaming. "Your Royal Highnesses – my Lord."

"Captain." His hand came up to salute of its own accord, winning, Drinian noted, a quickly-smothered smile. "It will be an honour to ride with you – if you will allow it."

Anelia hissed audibly, but her father nodded, and the little mariner flashed another wide grin. "The honour will be mine; I hear good things of your seamanship, though that's not to be wondered at in the Lord Tirian's son. Oh, I had the privilege of meeting your father many years ago, aboard Admiral Dar's ship _Royal Diadem_. Like most o' the fleet, I learned the better part of my seamanship at the Admiral's hand."

"Say naught of this to your uncle, my Lord, for his successor's sake." Nain rubbed his hands together, visibly satisfied with the courtesies observed. "Ram, you _will_ join us for dinner, of course? Now, Drinian – no protests regarding _rank_, yourself and Captain Ram are our guests, and therefore of quite equal status – you agree, Ram?"

"Gladly, Sire." Ram tugged his prominent earlobe. "So long as my Lord of Etinsmere abjures equal status aboard ship!"

"Unless he wants a cuffing from his messmates, Sir that can be guaranteed." Drinian's mother had often warned against his tendency to leap to conclusions, but on this occasion he could not stop himself.

The new Captain was surely going to be an improvement on the old!


	34. Chapter 33

_**THIRTY THREE**_

The first favourable impression was confirmed on a companionable ride to Barwell filled with the kind of easy conversation no man, Drinian suspected, could ever have enjoyed with Captain Ram's predecessor.

He was asked no questions about the ship or crew, and the instant they were piped aboard Drinian realised why. The Captain's emerald eyes moved ceaselessly even as he shook hands with Topasio and Marix (both caught unawares by the civility, leaving Ram's proffered hand thrust uselessly for an awkward moment). The furl of the sail, the condition of the planking, the shine on the handrails and the wary glances cast by the crew: Ram assessed it all in a moment before cheerfully dismissing his new officers with a request that the muster book be brought to his cabin. "Assemble all hands at six bells, Topasio if you please," he added, pitching his deep voice to carry the courtesy the length of the ship. "I should like to know the names of my shipmates, considering they already know mine."

"Aye, Cap'n." The Mate cocked a questioning eyebrow. Ram nodded.

"By all means be about your business, gentlemen. We have two days to ready ourselves for a two months' cruise as far as Terebinthia. Inform me of any shortfall in spares or provisions: the victuallers hereabout go in terror of the name o' Ram, I'll have our hold fully stocked before sailing! Drinian, if you would be kind enough to bring the ship's log with the muster roll to me."

"Aye, Sir." Then he would not longer be _Etinsmere_ to his commander. Drinian bustled to collect the necessary documents, stifling the urge to whistle for joy. From Kolin's bloodless lips the title he revered had been sullied, a reminder that the master of Narnia's great northern woods ought not to be serving another kingdom's fleet.

By his precise accent Ram betrayed himself connected to Archenland's small nobility; a man neither impressed nor intimidated by the rank of his youngest subordinate. That alone, Drinian decided, rapping confidently on the cabin door, might make his life more tolerable in future!

* * *

The weather turned wild on their second day out from Barwell, forcing _Tiger_ to crawl northward under no sail, men constantly straining at the oars to keep her clear of Narnia's treacherous tidal waters. "Hard to be so near home, Drinian?" Ram howled over the wind's scream, waving a gloved hand shoreward. Shaking the spray and rain from his matted hair, Drinian forced his weighted shoulders into a shrug.

"In these conditions, Captain?" he yelled back, wrenching the recalcitrant wheel between stinging palms. "These southern bays are benign enough, but should we be forced close in off Etinsmere…"

"Aye, a rugged country, but the sandbars hereabout are as deadly as the hull-shearing rocks off your coast." Unsteady as a stunned bear Ram swayed to throw his slight weight with Drinian's against the galleon's determined bucking. "Lion Alive, my girl, enough of this madness! Forgive me – I talk to my ships far too much."

"Fancy she appreciates it, Sir." By a fluke of the storm, _Tiger _quieted momentarily, the ominous creaking of her hull stilled. "You know these waters?"

"Slightly. Marix! Get men to the pumps, we're taking on a gallon a minute! Feel how she shudders, Drinian, with the remnants of that last wave splashing through her guts? And look astern – is the storm lifting?"

He shoved the hair plastering itself into his eyes back and scowled at the surly banks of charcoal cloud in their wake. "Not by much, Sir!"

"Another hour and we'll lie in a flat calm, mark my words." Jewel-bright, Ram's eyes twinkled beneath the brim of his waxed sou'wester. "And when we do, you'll bring your sextant aft and take a few sights for me; the Boson swears there's naught but mathematics for you to perfect before you'll merit your own command."

"Marix is keen to be rid of me, Sir!"

"Wat and Darin perhaps." Ram winked, raising his rich bass to catch the ears of the two stout mariners struggling aft against the gale. "Idlers, drunkards and vagabonds, they're the crewmen a wise boson tries to rid himself of."

"That'd be us, Cap'n." Resolutely unoffended, Wat brought a broad hand up to the clean cloth holding back his hair in salute. "Come to take me turn at the tiller, Sir."

"Good. Drinian, go below and dry off as best you can: and pay heed for a shout to the sails. I doubt our shipmate believes my pledge we'll be in calm water within an hour, Wat."

"Can't says I b'lieve it meself, if you'll pardon me sayin' so, Sir!"

Ram shuffled across to the rail, leaving the grinning sailor to grip the great wheel alone. "I should wager a Coronet on it, gentlemen, but a captain should set a moral example to the blackguards of his crew," he drawled, dismissing their howls of mock protest with an airy wave. "Remember, Drinian – the moment we're set fair on our new course, bring your sextant and chalkboard to the poop. I must see if your calculations are as wild as Marix pretends. _The lad's greatest weakness_, he says. Wat! Do most tars not list wenches or fierce spirits as theirs?"

* * *

They made Galma on the fourth day, anchoring in time to witness an extravagant sunset of crimson and gold behind the island's peak. "Never seen the old rock more lovely," Ram observed, resting on the landward rail between Dorix and the Mate. "I'm commanded to go ashore at the earliest moment, Topasio, to pay His Majesty's compliments to the Duke. Have the boat put out from breakfast; and inform the men that any who request it will be considered for a half-day's shore leave."

"Aye, Cap'n." Topasio's pale eyes narrowed. Ram flashed a toothy grin.

"Men that know themselves trusted will prove themselves worthy of trusting – aye, even that sullen oaf Berix, in time! Aye, Crain, the boat's crew may have the morning to themselves: only be sober enough to steer straight when you ferry me back aboard! Yes, Drinian?"

"Captain, may I take an hour's leave?" Gnawing his bottom lip, Drinian considered the best way to phrase his request, settling on unvarnished honesty. "A servant of my family is settled in Galamaia, or close by; a deserter from Miraz's northern war. I should like…"

"_Noblesse oblige_, young fellow, I understand." Ram steered him to the mast's foot, the pressure of a nut-brown hand on his shoulder keeping the tall youth's head ducked closer to his. "My father had a small estate near Barwell – my brother's now, and welcome he is to its burdens! The duty I feel to my crew – aye, and you'll know to yours, one day – is not dissimilar to the obligation a good landowner feels to his people; be an advantage to you to understand that, back in your own place when Miraz is gone."

"That day's so far away, Sir, I might be Lord Admiral of Archenland before he falls." The harsh laugh tasted bitter in his throat, and Ram's sympathetic squeeze of the arm only made Drinian feel worse. "I do my best not to remember Etinsmere, Captain, but Jostain risked his life to bring word to my family. I owe it to him – and my father – to ensure he's comfortable in his new life."

"I'll ask at Rairton's residence," Ram offered, twisting sideways to shield his companion's troubled countenance from the passing Boson. Drinian thrust a hand back through his hair.

"Thank you, Captain, but I know where to find word." In a low voice he related the tale of Jostain's escape and Raimon the cloth merchant's kindness. Ram listened in silence, nodding his grizzled head.

"Come ashore with my party," he instructed at length, when the gong for dinner caused a wave of shoving, cheerful humanity to break around them. "And take as much time as you must. Now, don't fret! We shan't set sail for Terebinthia without you, much as you may wish on arriving there we had!"

* * *

The wharf was quiet when they stepped ashore after an early breakfast: Ram leading his party westward, up the wider main street to the Ducal Palace while Drinian picked his way though alleys which, though ramshackle and rough, lacked the nightmare squalour his childish imagination had bestowed on them. Traversing them took a fraction of the time he recalled: his longer legs, or Uncle's infernal meandering? A little of each, he suspected.

At length the market square opened before him, surrounded by arcaded shops and filled with the merry prattle of gossiping vendors and customers quarrelling for a bargain. His eye was drawn instantly to the north-west corner, where rolls of coarse cloth were stacked outside a wide-open door. The windows on either side were draped with velvet, satin and lace, the sign above bright with new paint. Raimon's business had prospered in the years since his last visit. Drinian hoped fervently that Jostain had benefitted by it.

Ducking to avoid the flapping folds of pink silk which swathed the doorway he stepped inside, blinking against the interior's dusty dimness. "Can I be of service, sir?" a voice trilled from his right side. Drinian jumped.

"Beg pardon." The girl who slipped around the counting table, small and dark haired, her belly protruding beneath a sober grey gown, marred her respectful curtsey with a cheeky smile. "Uncle always says we ought not to give our customers frights, but where better can we watch the door than here?"

"I wonder you can see at all!" he shot back, reluctant to move among the stacked ells of fabric until his eyes had accustomed themselves to the gloom. The girl's tinkling laughter died on her tongue.

"Are you the young lord that brought Jostain from Narnia?" she breathed, resting her hands on her swollen abdomen. Drinian nodded.

"I hoped to find him; is he well?"

"Aye, m'Lord." Her words were oddly clipped, and even Uncle Dar would have recognised the chill that had descended. "I'll call him; be kind enough to take a seat."

"Thank you." He remained standing, stupidly tensed, ready to flee but frozen to the spot while she bustled to the back of the shop, summoning his old servant with an agitated quack. Casting a last frightened glance over her shoulder, she disappeared into another room.

"M'Lord!" Broader and browner than Drinian remembered, Jostain barrelled down a flight of narrow stairs at the shop's rear, wiping his hands on a leather apron pierced by a dozen needles of differing lengths. "By the Conqueror's Shield, fair thought Salica were run mad yellin' that you'd come! Where's the silly girl gone, to fetch the old man? Sal! M'Lord Drinian don't bite, woman, an' your uncle's gone back to the country – don't feel well in town, and small blame to him for it! This here's my wife Salica you see, m'Lord – Raimon's niece."

"My congratulations." Small wonder the girl was afraid of him! As she peered from the safety of the back room, Drinian extended his open palm as he would to a nervous horse. "And will this be your first child?"

"Aye, sir, due before the year's out." Jostain's pigeon chest had filled out, and it swelled with pride as he embraced his young wife. "Old Raimon's been proper kind to me – taught me his business; promoted me long afore I dared pay court to Sal. Fancy he knew I was sweet on her, mind."

"Half Galamaia knew before you confessed, silly." As she laid her damp hand in his, Drinian shocked her by raising it to his lips. "What brings you to Galma, my Lord? News of Narnia?"

"None I'd care to tell, Madam." Gallantry had failed to reassure her; he fell back on candour. "No; my ship's in port and while the Captain visits your duke I hoped to see for myself that Jostain is content in his exile."

"That I am, m'Lord, but I'll be back in Narnia the moment you're established in your rights," the gentleman announced stoutly. Salica could not quite muffle her moan.

Drinian shook his head, forcing his lips to an upward turn in defiance of every facial muscle. "Indeed you will not," he retorted, his stomach flipping under her gratified smile. "Miraz is barely forty; we may both be in our dotage, and I shan't see a family thrown into confusion for Etinsmere's sake. Your wife belongs here; your child will think Etinsmere as alien as Westerwood is to me. No, Jostain! Knowing exile myself, I won't hear of a family enduring it for my sake."

"But m'Lord, your father – milady…"

"Would say the same in my place." Their strength flooded him, pushing to the edge of consciousness the sinking regret of another connection being finally severed. "I hoped to find you settled and prospering, Jostain; and I hope in ten years' time, whether I be Master of Etinsmere or of an Archenlandish trading barque, you still shall be. Mistress Salica, if he ever suggests abandoning his duties for Etinsmere's sake, in my stead give him a thrashing!"

The tall man's pale eyes grew watery. "Spoken like Lord Tirian hisself," he murmured, hugging his wife close. "But – what of her Ladyship, sir? Is she well?"

"Well at peace." His throat tightened, and he could say no more. He had no need.

"I'm right sorry, my Lord." Greatly daring, Salica squeezed his clenched fingers. "She was a good lady, I know from all Jostain says of her. How long ago…"

"Almost five years." Her sweet oval face swam before him, the sparkling eyes and slight, lopsided smile as clear as if he last saw them yesterday. "Her heart was broken in Narnia: no matter what the physicians might say, Miraz killed her as surely as he did my father."

"Like as not to be true." With a nod to his wife, Jostain guided him unresisting to a chair. "Stay and take some tea with us, m'Lord; you can't go gaddin' about Galamaia upset. Should we add a dash o' rum to it, you bein' a sailor now?"

"Not unless you'd have me sick over your accounts, my friend." Impatient, he dashed the moisture from his eyes, bringing the bright, curious face of Mistress Salica into proper focus. "Thank you, Madam, you're most kind. Give my compliments to your uncle – I'm sorry I shan't have time to stay and see him, but I must be aboard before the captain returns, and we sail on the evening tide. Next time we put in at Galamaia, I'll be sure to call again."

"Always welcome, my Lord." Salica's smile was warm – grateful, he mused, as if his visit had settled an old dispute in her favour. Very likely it had; without his express instruction he doubted any thing would have prevented Jostain making for Etinsmere the instant news reached him of Miraz's decease.

Though he left them with smiles and good wishes, black clouds the like of which he had not seen in all his service at sea rolled through his soul. He berated himself for selfishness while stomping about his duties aboard, scaring away the friends who would have teased him and making himself feel an insufferable boor in the process. When the rest of the company danced on the maindeck, making the best of a favourable breeze and the captain's good nature, he mumbled an excuse and retreated, accompanied by his demons to the hold.

For the first time, he didn't shudder from the scorching trickle of the nightly tot down his throat. In fact, he wished there was more of it.


	35. Chapter 34

_**THIRTY FOUR**_

He quickly shook off self-pity in curiosity as _Tiger_ tacked south through lively seas and the Thirty League Rocks signposting the approach to Terebinthia loomed like a dragon's jagged teeth through the spray ahead.

"Nasty beggars, them," Wat remarked, scanning the waves battering their sheer sides with a borrowed telescope. "Only the top third o' the things above the water, aye an' they spread for a full league just under the surface, so they says. Mariner's graveyard, them great ugly buggers."

"An _unwary_ mariner's graveyard, Wat," Ram cut in, strolling forward from the poop to join the idlers. "A sharp-eyed lookout and a sober skipper have little enough to fear – less than they have ashore at Port Terebinthia I'll wager. There'll be no shore leave, but I shall take an armed escort to the palace. Marix, you'll see to it: broadswords and quilted jerkins, but no armour. Able to defend ourselves but not seeking confrontation."

"I'll leave Wat an' Darin aboard then, Sir." the Boson quipped. "Drin, get your broadsword sharpened after dinner; Sarin, Dorix an' Lain. Five of us enough, Cap'n?"

Ram nodded. "At your discretion, Boson, you know the ship's company better than I."

"Not for long if you'll pardon the boldness, Sir."

"Gladly, and thank you." Deep grooves cut down the sides of Ram's mouth when he smiled. "Topasio! We shall take in sail while skirting those devils I think. All hands to duty stations!"

There was, Drinian mused, a new vigour in the men's response to orders since Captain Ram came aboard. Not that Kolin's had been a lax company, they had all respected the man's seamanship in spite of his moods; it was more that his successor, striding about deck joking with his men, radiated assurance, not merely in himself but in _them_. "Right proper sailor's man, that one," Crain declared that evening in the gloom of the hold. "Thinks of 'isself as one o' the crew, not summat better than us. Always did think Kolin were 'oldin' 'is nose against the stink o' the common seaman."

"Aye." The knot of men around him growled their assent. "He's troubled by this visit to Terebinthia, mind."

"And right to be. Never been there yourself, Drin?"

He shook his head. "Nest o' pirates, cut-throats an' thieves it is," Wat continued. "Coo! Even the harlots 'as stolen diamonds in their ears, an' they don't look at a man unless 'e's got a purse o' gold to offer – so they says that've been there, anyrate. The Old Man's wise to want an escort – better the whole company under arms than a few stragglers, though!"

"I'm intrigued now." And a little afraid too, not that he would confess as much to men Drinian doubted had known a second' fear in their lives. Retreating to his hammock he tried to stop his ears to the grisly tales they told of incautious visitors leaving their bones on the approaching island, convinced the Captain would not wilfully endanger a single man of his crew.

Still, it was the first night since boarding ship he found himself tormented by bloody childhood nightmares.

* * *

If they noticed his unusual pallor next morning his friends were too kind to mention it: too preoccupied as well by the flotilla of dirty schooners and ill-painted barques that scattered from Port Terebinthia's wide shell-shaped bay on their approach. "Word's got out we're coming," Topasio growled, sending a pair of archers to the fighting top with a wave of the hand. "Less o' the bast – _blackguards_ to dodge on shore, Sir."

"Indeed." The small vessels tacked as far away from _Tiger's_ bulk as the breeze would allow, clearing her path into port. "Landing party assemble at the entryport. Topasio, lower the boat the moment we're moored. The more quickly this errand's done, the happier we all shall be!"

In grim silence they rowed from deep water to the harbour wall, watched by a hundred pairs of hidden eyes; Drinian could feel their resentful scrutiny, though their owners kept a distance, scuttling from the street and closing doors and shutters behind them. "Anyone would think we were an invasion force!" he marvelled under his breath.

"Only wish we were; clear out these scum and make the place safe for respectable folk to do business." Dorix's hand was on his sword hilt before his foot had touched the quay. "Phew! Stinks of stale rum and fish guts!"

Port Terebinthia was the first place Drinian had been that made Galamaia's wharf appear respectable. Its taverns, their doors blocked with large, heavy-eyed brawlers, were ramshackle; more than one tradesman's sign had a hole the size of a large fist through its middle. Ports, he accepted, were coarse places. Still, most aimed to cover their more brutal sides with at least a veneer of decency.

The morning was fresh, but heaviness settled over him on the brisk march into the town itself, oppressive as an oncoming storm. They pushed their way in a solid phalanx through a crowded marketplace where the sweaty reek of too many bodies was intensified by the heat of a dozen small furnaces into which sullen fellows with scarred faces and wary eyes fed a steady stream of broken gold or copper objects.

Behind rickety tables hoarse old traders croaked their wares, guttural as a flock of ravens: diamond brooches, gold and silver, rich cloth and fine wine among the daily bric-a-brac. "Don't look too close at the goblets, Drin," Marix rumbled damply against his ear. "See how they've scratched off the rightful owner's marks? Not a man-jack of 'em ever did an honest day's work for their finery."

"Enough, Boson." Ram's rebuke sounded taut. Even he, Drinian decided, was not immune to the hostile glances cast their way by locals a sensible man would not challenge lightly. A red-haired fellow his own height but twice his bulk barged purposefully past, sending him reeling.

Automatically, he gripped his sword's curved hilt. "Keep your temper, lad."

"Aye, Sir." Damn, the words hurt his tight throat! But the press of humanity was thinning as they reached the market's edge. Drinian released the breath he had been holding, dizzy more with relief than the rush of air filling his lungs. A wider road opened before them, large stone buildings standing proud above the timbered chaos of the lower town. Though his flesh still prickled ominously under too many resentful stares, he had space to set back his shoulders; and room to swing his sword.

He was shocked by the combativeness of the thought. Terebinthia's poisoned atmosphere was affecting him no less than its residents.

At the iron gates of King Tonlock's palace their papers were inspected by a gruff guard whose shaven head shone as bright as the viciously curved billhook in his fist. "Come with me," he snarled at Ram. "Men! Ale for the Captain's party! You'll wait comfortable enough in the gatehouse."

"Thank you." The response was instinctive and earned him a sneer. Drinian arched a quizzical brow.

Another man, shorter and stout, snorted. "Sit and drink with us." _And don't try being clever with me,_ his narrowed eyes advised. Obediently, Drinian slouched onto the stone shelf around the spartan whitewashed chamber which he gathered served as seating.

While the Archenlanders followed his lead, the group of Terebinthians in yellow leather tunics remained standing, each with a tankard in one hand and his spear in the other. Cautious, Drinian raised a pewter mug filled with foaming golden ale to his lips, surreptitiously watching his elder companions. "Not bad," Lain declared.

"Better than that ladylike pink wine we get from your sloops. Tastes like soap an' strawberries mashed together!"

"That would be the Barwell vintage." Drinian grinned at the impudent speaker, winning a dubious twitch of the mouth in return. "By the Lion's Mane, Dorix, you can't dispute it's sickly wet stuff! Prefer Westerwood's myself; it has more bite to it."

"Aye, the wines form the border country are sharper," Dorix agreed, giving up the struggle to sit comfortable on solid granite. "This is decent ale, though. Brewed at the castle, is it?"

"Aye" Scratching his hooked nose, the eldest guard relaxed visibly. "Better than you'll get in town, and half the cost. Stronger, too."

"I'll say! The young feller best not drink too deep, else he'll need carryin' back to your ship!"

"I'll manage, thank you." Drinian took a hearty gulp. Marix thumped him on the back.

"Lad's been at sea long enough to manage his liquor, though I fancy he'll never develop a dangerous likin' for it. Captain!"

"We have leave to return to our ship. Thank you, gentlemen, for your hospitality; we shall find our own way to our boat."

"Did it not go well, Cap'n?" Marix hissed the instant they were out of the cavernous, echoing lodge. Ram lifted his bony shoulders.

"No better or worse than one would expect when faced by a puppet and his master," he muttered. "Drinian, lead the way, this will be a test of your navigational skills, especially after a tankard of their pernicious brew! King Tonlock wrung his hands against our King's stern protests, while Minister Wenlock pledged to have our _legitimate concerns _investigated with _all due urgency. _The boy's striding out quite steadily I think, gentlemen; no ill effects from alcohol that I can see."

"Got the stomach for it, Cap'n, just not the inclination." Marix's words were muffled but the merriment behind them sliced clean through the slight fuzziness inside Drinian's head. "Coo! Fifteen ain't he, an' not a trace of a vice that I can see! We'll 'ave to take you properly in hand, Master Drinian, else you'll be shamin' the whole fleet with your blasted virtue!"


	36. Chapter 35

_**THIRTY FIVE**_

He was careful to deny any suggestion of peakiness the next day, though his head ached abominably and his mouth was desert dry until teatime. Dorix made a show of raising his voice whenever he came within range, but as the day wore on and the truncheons stopped beating inside his skull, Drinian found the strength to retaliate in kind.

It was gratifying to see his comrades were no more immune to the effect of potent liquor than he, even if they_ were_ spared annoying quips about their imagined virtue.

"As well our shipmate can be trusted to conduct himself like a gentleman," Ram remarked on reading the royal decree awaiting him in Barwell at their cruise's end. "Their Royal Highnesses cordially invite His Grace of Etinsmere to their sixteenth birthday ball at Anvard next week, and I'd as lief see the fleet represented by an officer of unimpeachable discretion. Oh! Had I not mentioned your impending promotion, Drinian?"

"Perhaps I misheard, Sir." A lusty cheer went up from the maindeck, stopped by a sharp slice of Drinian's hand. Ram grabbed it and shook vigorously.

"You've the authority aboard already, young man: all you lack is the gold button on your tunic. I dare say His Majesty will draw notice to it at the ball, unless your aunt persuades you to appear in landsmen's clothes."

Drinian might have shuddered at the prospect of being turned into a courtier, but so proud was the Lady of Westerwood to watch Lord Gurin fasten the badge of his new rank to his collar that any disappointment in seeing her nephew in the staid grey woollen naval tunic at court was quite overcome. Surrounded by the denizens of Anvard in peacock splendour, he cut a strikingly restrained figure more admired, Aunt opined, than he should have been in the crimson and dark green she had long preferred to set off the dark colouring common to their family.

"Proves I'm making myself useful in exile, Madam; more than can be said for many o' the native guests hereabout." Prowling the pleasant chambers allocated for their stay, he traced a skein of gold silk woven through the wall hangings. "What does Hastin's grandson do, save maunder about the castle penning dire poems for the Princess? Or that puffed-up absurdity Nerix? Too old for the schoolroom and too useless for the King's service, it seems to me."

"His Majesty is fond of both." Her thin lips pursed, Katharina Westerwood leaned against the outer door, blocking the keyhole with her hip. "And _do_ moderate your voice, Drinian! I _knew_ sending you to sea so young was a mistake – you're turned into another loud, common seaman like your uncle."

"And my father?" Guilt flashed across her face, a match for the piercing pain in his chest.

"My brother was sufficiently powerful – and high enough in his master's favour – for his tactless ways to be applauded," she said stiffly. "At least so long as his friend held the throne! You are reliant on the charity of Archenland, and – I hope – wise enough to _trim your sails_ accordingly."

"Yes, Aunt." The rebuke did not bring hot tears to his eyes so much as the truth behind it. "I'll simper and sigh as prettily Horstin if I must: only don't expect me to linger!"

"I know it humiliates you." The tension drained from her, leaving her powdered cheeks to sag with age and wear. "I hoped the pain of exile would fade when you found activity to your taste, but…"

"It doesn't hurt." The lie was sour on his tongue. Thrusting his fingers through his neatly combed hair, Drinian threw himself onto a convenient couch, expelling a mirthless laugh. "So long as I don't _think_, at least! I wish people would stop _talking_ of Narnia, and Miraz falling and my being free to go home, Aunt! It shan't happen; this is my home now, and the sooner I accept it, the better!"

"You are your father's son, and Tirian was apt to rail against aught he could not control." She ghosted to brush a kiss against his crown. "Etinsmere's your home, and so long as you've breath you will never be free of it. Now, sit up and comb your hair again! While you _must_ preen and prance for a foreigner's court, we'll ensure none can do it more becomingly!"

* * *

King Nain had gathered every noble family in the kingdom to celebrate their birthday, and Drinian was astonished to find at least one of the official hosts even less enamoured of the event than himself. "It's humiliating!" Anelia exclaimed, brushing out her gold silk kirtle with fierce strokes that snagged her painted nails. "Corin! Stop capering like an infant, this is _supposed_ to mark our maturity, whatever the stuffed toys and the stilt-walkers on the stairs might suggest!"

"I thought you would have delighted in all the attention," Drinian murmured, concealing the words in his formal greeting bow. The Princess shot him a vicious look even while elegantly extending her other hand for his kiss.

"Two hundred people squalling in the ballroom; the food all gone stale because it was set out before everyone arrived; father telling everyone how we ended in a heap as infants while dancing for Uncle Caspian's ambassadors… ugh, and my Lord Nerix, how _kind_ of you to come, and my Lord and Lady Riverglade! You know the Lord Drinian of Etinsmere, of course? Oh, a poem for my birthday, how _charming_! Horstin, did you know Nerix writes verse too? Please, do fetch drinks, I believe you'll find Corin at the buffet table."

With the stuttering of her admirer in his ears, Drinian escaped into the gaudy ballroom, ducking his lofty head to avoid the streamers and garlands tumbling from the roof beams. Anelia's false trill rang out above the hubbub of too many trivial conversations, the gracious hostess personified: so long, he thought, as one didn't look too deep into her unresponsive eyes.

Prince Corin, on the other hand, positively overflowed with party spirit, particularly in the presence of the Countess of Lionswood (whose elderly husband, having a tendency to gastric discomfort, had been advised to forego the late hours and rich food on offer) a statuesque blonde with amber-gold eyes and the flattest, most somnolent speaking voice Drinian had ever heard. "Won't you have another salmon pastry, Reginala?" he volunteered, slightly breathless from an energetic spin to the whistles of the court musicians. "I say! Have you seen the new button on Drinian's tunic? He's an Officer of the Fleet now – splendid! Father says I'm to have a uniform soon, and an honorary Admiral's rank. Does that mean you'll have to salute me?"

"I assumed I was supposed to in any event, Your Highness." Suiting the action to the word, Drinian snapped a hand to his brow. Lady Lionwood whined her monotone laugh.

"A pity your uniform must be such a sad grey colour," she droned. "Would not Lord Drinian better suit green or dark blue, my Prince?"

"Dashed annoying that he suits every thing!" Corin cawed, slapping his friend lustily on the back. "Ah! The Lionswood March! In your husband's absence, Reginala, may I have the honour?"

"The honour is mine, my dear Highness."

The tips of Corin's ears turned pink. Seizing her hand lest any other dare steal her from him, he hurried his trophy to the head of a forming crocodile of dancers.

"Are you going to laugh at Corin or dance yourself, my Lord?" The subtle hum of her voice close to his ear made him start. Gamely, Drinian presented his hand to the smirking Princess.

"If Your Grace will be my partner, I'll try to remember Aunt's strictures about _not thumping about_," he drawled. Anelia's high chortle turned a score of heads their way.

He rather thought she meant it to.

Having once grasped his hand, she showed no great willingness to release it. "I'm hiding," she explained, leaning closer than the dance required in passing halfway down the line, so her breast feathered his chest. "Horstin's sighing and Nerix trots at my heels like a drowned pup. Corin thinks them comical."

"As funny as he is fawning over Lady Lionswood?"

"Ha! That _is_ funny. At least _my_ suitors are near in age, even if Nerix _does_ look thirteen at best."

"Twelve, surely?"

"Brute!"

"What better can you expect of a rough sailor?"

"Who dances as lightly as a prince." The music stilled with them in the centre of a clapping circle, their fingers twined and matching mischievous smiles curving their lips. "Would you not appreciate a breath of air, my Lord?"

"I see the doors to the rose garden have been opened, if Your Highness would care to join me?"

Her long eyelashes fluttered ridiculously. "Delighted, my Lord."

The tranquillity of the garden caught him off-balance after the clamour indoors. "Do you wish yourself a dozen leagues out from Barwell?" his companion wondered.

"At this instant – no." He grinned down into her fine-boned oval face, gilded silver by moonlight. "Three minutes ago - a hundred leagues would have suited better."

"Aye." Their wandering – aimless, he thought – brought them to a halt behind a tall yew hedge, screening them from the castle. Anelia sighed deeply and he glanced down again.

Swift as a striking snake she brought both hands to his nape and tugged. Before his lips could part in protest, hers were crushed against them, and thoughts of objecting flew from his head.

How many seconds passed before he reeled back, lips tingling and eyes popped, Drinian was never sure. "Wha' – Anelia!" he spluttered, longing for the sturdy balance he enjoyed at sea. Pressing her fingers to her mouth, she arched delicate brows at him.

"Why! Has a lady never kissed you so before, my Lord of Etinsmere?" High and giddy, his title ended on a giggle.

"Have you ever kissed a gentleman so?"

Wayward glee exploded in a gusty chortle. "When the only gentleman under forty in the castle is my brother? Hateful thought!"

"Not the only one, surely, though Aunt would be flattered to hear I qualify for the name." He traced the outline of his bottom lip experimentally with his tongue, acutely aware of her watchful stare. "What of Nerix, or Horstin? Or the ushers?"

"Ushers are men, not _gentlemen_. Nerix – did you estimate twelve? He's eighteen, but no one would believe it. As to Horstin, _that_ would be like kissing a raincloud! You're not going to complain to Father?"

With the strange, sweet taste of her mouth still on his and his head still spinning? Drinian brought her hand up for a courtier's kiss. "Not unless you intend telling tales to my aunt. But we ought to go in, before anyone notices we're gone."

"I dare say such practicality is useful at sea." The proud dame who objected to stuffed toys at her party skittered like a carefree child toward the castle. "Hurry _up_, Drinian! We cut the cakes at midnight, and mine is strawberry sponge!"


	37. Chapter 36

_**THIRTY SIX**_

His stories of the royal feast were much requested back aboard. Drinian measured every word with care, determined his nightly tot should not summon events in the rose garden to his tongue through their placid cruise north toward Narnia. "Your waters are infested with villains nowadays," Ram remarked on the seventh evening, lounging against the taffrail during Drinian's post-dinner watch. "To the extent even the coward Miraz takes action! Two brigs are called the _Royal Fleet of Narnia_, though where he's found 'em Lion alone knows."

"Mortain did begin work on two small brigs at my father's orders, a year before the usurpation," Drinian remembered, a fond smile quirking his mouth at the memory of the wizened little shipwright and his countless dusty drawings. "_Royal Telmar_ for defence against piracy, and _Etinsmere_ as a trading ship for Father's use. If they've been laid up six years, Sir, they'll be rotted through: and how will he man them?"

"Criminals, from all accounts. I heard of it from Par, the captain of His Majesty's ship, while you were gadding about court. Fellow named Solivar is placed in command. Know of him?"

Drinian snorted rudely. "A cousin of Father, and the most liverish lubber imaginable."

"Aye, well he commands the _Great Miraz _and _Lady Prunaprismia_ against the marauding hordes, so long as the poor fools sailing 'em don't ram each other leaving port. By _commands_, of course, I mean waves them off from the shore."

"Be surprised if they could drag him onto the beach!" Still Papa's ships were being manhandled from their abandoned anchorages, and at least one of the poor wretches tossed aboard might learn to cherish the sailor's life. The proud little _Etinsmere, _though, renamed for a usurper or his obstreperous wife! He would have to see her restored to her proper title one day.

* * *

"All hands to witness punishment!" The strident boom of Marix's bass echoed the length of the hold, turning every man from his bed. Drinian tugged his shirt straight, teeth grinding as he strove for calm. _Tiger_ had been summoned home to port for this, and every man would have sooner been any where else. Captain Ram had issued the necessary orders in a steady voice, but the tautness of skin pulling over the bump of his nose had betrayed his own distress eloquently.

Keel-hauling. The Old Man had seen it done, he said, many years ago. The last time a drunken sot of a _presser_ had dared raise hand against an officer of King Nain's fleet.

Determined to ignore the chains jangling in his belly he climbed through the aft hatch, following Dorix to their station amidships. Across Barwell Roads the companies of twenty vessels matched them, anchored like ducklings around a central galleon. _Anvard_. Kolin's command, about the waist of which a thick rope had been thrown like a giant's belt.

On deck the prisoner stood bound at hand and foot, secured at the middle to the main rope. "Least they're doin' it amidships, not stem to stern," Wat grunted, shuffling uneasily at Drinian's shoulder. "By Aslan! Many a time I'd've swung for the bugger meself… lucky I'd mates to restrain us!"

"Aye." Dorix's knuckles cracked noisily. "Sorry. Look at him! Never saw such a miserable scrap of a mutineer in my life!"

"Not that you keep company with rebels, I trust." The Captain's dark tan could not conceal tension's underlying pallor. "All hands! Atten-_shun_!"

Two guards hefted the prisoner over the port rail, his splash drowned out by the groans of his shipmates hauling for all they were worth on the girth rope. Drinian clamped his lips tight, pressing his fingers together in a rhythmic count. One second. Two. Three. Four. How long did it take to drag a dead weight the width of a galleon?

The shouts from the _Anvard_ redoubled. Time slowed. "He must be drowned!"

"If he's lucky." Dorix, unfazed by battle, sounded as if he might be sick. "Might have his head sliced off by a barnacle; _Anvard's_ not been careened for a year or more."

"Look!" Ripples disturbed the water in the galleon's lee. The chain around her shuddered and strained. "He's up!"

Inch by agonised inch a bloody, misshapen lump scraped up the ship's near side. What must be the criminal's head lay twisted at a grotesque angle toward the left shoulder. Drinian's stomach lurched as if he had been struck by a hurricane's swell.

Willing hands stretched from the maindeck to heave the victim (he could think of the condemned man no other way) aboard, leaving his trail of blood and snapped barnacle like a monstrous snail's down the planking. Men lunged forward to carry what remained below for treatment which, Marix muttered, would likely be worse than the wounds themselves. The clang of a gong reverberated around the anchorage, and a sigh broke loose across Barwell Bay.

"Man the capstan!" The Old Man's caw wound like a relieving spell around petrified limbs. "Drinian, take the conn and set course for the river mouth the moment she's free. _Now,_ not next week, you laggardly devils, we've a long journey to Brenn before us!"

"Aye, that's distance enough 'twixt us an' this damned place," Berix lumbered forward to plant his chest against the capstan's bar, more eager to leave the land than Drinian had ever believed he might be. "Thought them dark devils was cruel, but this…"

Assent rumbled from stem to stern. Wrapping his fingers around the wheel's smooth rim Drinian watched the same bustle break loose across the anchorage, until only the _Anvard _remained moored. "We must have discipline, my boy," Ram murmured, leaning over on the pretext of checking the binnacle lamp. "However arbitrary it may seem."

"A rebel against his King on land would be hanged, Sir." _Or decapitated by axe if his_ _very decency threatened a pretender to the crown_, he amended with a mental shudder. "Is such a death not punishment enough for the sea?"

"The fellow may survive." Unlikely, and both knew it. "And the laws of the Fleet are as old as the waves themselves. Oh, I'd wish for an _enlightened_ service such as you imagine, Drinian: every man a cheerful volunteer, with a captain's authority supported by naught beyond meritorious character and respect for the rules. Should the day ever come we man our ships from upright citizens, not the leavings of prison and tavern, such barbaric practises may cease: not in our lifetimes, I'll wager! Now, steady on the tiller. The lady's yours to guide between the sandbanks and that damned infernal archipelago of windswept rocks; a better test of your seamanship you won't find in charted waters!"

* * *

The next time he thought of the keel-hauling, six days into his leave on Brenn, it was with mild displeasure in his own callousness. The miscreant might be dead: his cruel fate might have triggered the very mutiny it was intended to prevent, and he had given it not a thought in more than a month.

"Must be as hard-hearted as a Calormene – or a captain," he mused, pausing to gaze into a baker's window midway down Redhaven's sprawling main street. The sun was sinking, staining the lapping waves at the wharf bloody as a pulped corpse and the shutters were being pulled across the fronts of the more reputable businesses farther from the sea. On a heavy sigh, Drinian ambled into the middle of the cobbled street, idly kicking a rotting cabbage down the gentle slope. Hands thrust into his jerkin's empty pockets, he picked his way seaward, careful not to step on the mud-filled cracks between cobbles.

Intent on his new game, he missed the first raucous halloo from the doorway of an especially dingy hostelry perched on the crossroad between port and town. "Shore leave's s'posed to be fun, lad!" Darin slurred, stumbling over the low threshold. "C'm an' join us, we're even seein' to it _Berix_ enjoys 'is liberty better 'n you!"

Drinian eyed the tumbledown structure with its loose roof slates and its missing window pane for an instant. "Why not?" he heard himself exclaim, giving his friend a genial push in the right direction as he entered. "Where _is_ Berix, by the way? I thought he had leave so long as he remained in company with a _trusted officer_. Good evening, Marix."

"Drin." One arm around a tankard, the other encompassing a buxom brunette, the Boson gave him a genial nod. "Thought you was seekin' word o' your countrymen with the Old Bugger."

"Captain's gone to Muil, and I know all seven passed safe this far." He couldn't drag his eyes from the Boson's hand, meandering over the square neckline of his companion's garish sacking gown. Darin slapped a tankard onto the stained table before him. "Started reading minds?" he asked, taking a grateful glug.

The coarse red wine warmed his innards, but did nothing for the odd dryness about his mouth. As his eyes adjusted to the tobacco-stinking gloom, he could make out a dozen small tables, each occupied by a party like his: a few muscular fellows, sailors all; and bright-painted, scarce-dressed girls flaunting creamy bosoms and puckered mouths.

His skin began to prickle pleasantly. This was surely one of those _dens of iniquity_ Aunt could barely bring herself to warn against.

He sensed her presence behind him the instant before her slender fingers curled through the hair lying against his neck, her breath falling clammy against his ear. "A handsome shipmate you've brought to our table, Marix! Don't start, young master. I bite only when asked to – ain't that so, Boson?"

"Gentle with the lad, Elisa, the Old Feller'll have our 'ides if aught befalls our Drin." Ungallantly pushing his lady friend from his lap, Marix stretched to plant a smacking kiss on the newcomer's upturned lips. Daintily pulling a handkerchief from the lace trim around her plunging neckline, Elisa flicked a cascade of fiery copper curls into his face.

"Marix and I are old friends – Drin," she drawled, leaning forward until a full breast's soft weight rested on his shoulder. "Move along the bench like a gentleman and give me room to sit. Your first visit to Redhaven? I should remember a face as handsome as yours had you moored here before."

"Y-yes." How was a man supposed to converse when a woman's fingers were wandering at will from his nape and down? Vainly hoping his smirking friends would miss the trembling in his fingers, he seized his drink and sucked greedily. With a slanting smile, Elisa pried it from his grip.

"Well, I trust it shan't be your last," she murmured, using the pad of her finger to wipe a last drop of wine from his top lip. "How old is this fine gentleman, Marix?"

"Sixteen – or thereabout." Marix's honest answer came from a great distance that made the words hazy. Drinian allowed his hand to be picked up and placed against the woman's cool white flesh.

Elisa loosed a throaty chuckle that sang through his head until he could hear little above its melody. "_Quite _of an age to keep company," she purred, raising herself until his hand fell, boneless, against her heaving chest.

He heard Marix guffaw, and Darin whoop; felt himself stand, though the stone floor felt soft as cotton wool beneath his boots. Her rich, musky scent surrounded him, the rustle of gown and hair drowning the raucous din of the inn.

Cool air fanned his cheek as she pushed open a broken down door and urged him through. One last desperate, coherent thought flashed through his brain as her arms locked around him and her mouth came down, hot and hungry onto his.

_Ugh! They're smoking fish in the yard!_

_**Author's Note: First, thanks to those of you sticking with the story (and reviewing!) This chapter explains why it's getting so long: Drinian keeps taking over. The Royal Fleet of Narnia seems unlikely, but it will (eventually) have a payoff; and surely Drinian and the lost seven lords can't be the only Narnians not petrified of the sea!**_

_**Keel-hauling is one of the nasty things Drinian called up for Reepicheep when the Sea People made their appearance, and I had to work out how a Narnian would have come across it.**_

**_Finally - the last part is as close to the knuckle as I go, but for realism's sake I felt I had to include it. Please let me know what you think!_**

**_Lizzie_**


	38. Chapter 37

_**THIRTY SEVEN**_

Though he approached the lowered gangway with shoulders squared and hands clenched in readiness for a teasing next morning, his generous shipmates offered no more than their accustomed hails. By late afternoon, with _Tiger_ cruising south westward for home, Drinian had allowed himself to relax, hollering the chorus of a familiar shanty while heaving on the halyard ropes. The sun was shining, he had pledge of overdue pay waiting at Barwell, and the galley master promised fresh goose for dinner.

All he needed was the Royal Standard of Narnia in place of Archenland's blue and gold to make all well with his world.

Even to ask for that, he acknowledged after dinner, lounging below the poop ladder with a fishing line cast forgotten over the side, was churlish while Caspian languished a usurper's prisoner in all but name: while Ninian and the Glasswater girls, Lund the younger of Beaversdam and Malica Passarid doubtless chafed against the restraining hands of stern _guardians_ beneath the red, green and gold of their own pennants. He had the quiet ocean, a stout ship and liberty to do precisely as he pleased. Not even for Etinsmere's lush woody glades would he abandon that.

"Pensive this evening, Drinian." He bolted to attention, forcing his pixyish captain to lift twinkling eyes. "Regret leaving Redhaven?"

"Why should I, Sir?" He hadn't felt so guilty since Mamma had caught him dropping ants into Kathi's underclothes, and somehow he knew the burnish of wind and sun would not sufficiently hide the hot blood staining his cheek. Ram cocked his salt-and-pepper head.

"Oh, no great reason," he drawled, mischief bubbling out at his subordinate's shuffling discomfort. "By the Lion's Mane, lad, you look like a pup that's set for whipping! What a tar does with his shore leave's no concern of a wise captain unless it diminishes his obedience to orders aboard – like that dam' fool Berix having to be carried up the gangplank dead drunk at midnight. Did you not hear? Discovered face-down in the filth outside Madam Mirilana's establishment. Not a _salubrious_ place, but preferable to bedding down in a gutter dung-heap!"

"Aye, Sir." The implication took a moment to register. Drinian did a mammoth double-take. "Do you know…"

"Mirilana's residence is known to every mariner that ever put in at Redhaven; the present mistress is third or fourth to borrow the name." Ram leaned against the taffrail, a wistful smile pinching his neat mouth. "To the dismay of the ladies o' Muil; only the officers venture beyond Brenn, you see."

"Ah."

"Remember that when you're in command yourself: not good for discipline for the men to see the Old Bugger stumbling out of a harlot's hovel with his belt unbuckled."

"Aye, Sir." Elisa herself had not left him quite so dazed, Drinian considered, as this strange companion in his composed Captain's form. Ram chuckled.

"No sensible skipper condemns an honest man for his vices, Drinian. There are weak-headed sots can't stomach their tots but hoard 'em for a night's oblivion, and I've seen stout fellows ruined by their fondness for the doxies: they're the men that should be watched! Fancy you've a strong enough head to _direct_ your pleasures."

"Thank you – I think." He rubbed his damp brow, omitting the customary _Sir_ in his confusion. "Aunt did insist I have a _courtly_ education."

"Ah, but_ sense_ and _education_ are different things; else why would Anvard be filled with simpering fools with naught better to do than risk their estates on the turn of a card?" His mobile features twisted into a grimace, Ram glanced up at his neighbour, his quick interest caught by the slight motion of teeth worrying at a bruised bottom lip. "Something troubling you?"

"Do you think she's rolling more than usual, Sir?" He was accustomed to the vibration of the deck through his stout boots; knew the subtle sway of the waves creaming beneath the galleon's keel. "There's barely a breeze, and yet…"

Ram froze with his nose lifted, like a terrier sniffing the rabbit's scent. "Likely as not you're right, young man. There's a torrent on our tail; that's the deep ocean swelling off the starboard quarter. Topasio! Send a second hand to the tiller! Sailmen aloft! Hurry, Drinian, an _Officer_ should never trail a common tar to the mainyard!"

* * *

For five days they were lashed by soaring waves, their ears assaulted by the incessant scream of a tormenting wind. One moment teetering on the crest of a towering swell, peering into broiling slate depths, the next plunging down, spray drenching the ropes and rendering the decks, even in their rare level moments, traitorously slippery, _Tiger_ creaked and groaned against the elements' unremitting ferocity. Sleep-deprived and numb with cold, Drinian staggered from emergency to crisis in semi-darkness, oblivious to the grumble of his empty stomach so long as there was perilous occupation to attend.

Three men lost their footing; Darin was saved from drowning only by his ankle getting caught in the grappling chain amidships long enough for Topasio and Wat to reach overboard and drag him to safety. Worst of all, the tapering bowsprit stretching forward above the snarling prow figure was smashed clean away at the base, caught by the full force of a surging wave. "No chance of 'oldin' 'er, Cap'n!" Marix bawled, lashed to the wheel with his feet more often in the air than on deck.

"I thought we gave up on keeping course yesterday!" Clawing his way across the stern rail, Ram's grin gleamed from deep within the folds of his hood. "Drinian, Wat! Man the pump, if you please. I'll give you a Coronet to a Galmian Ducal we're through the worst of it now!"

"Aye Sir!" Whether he believed it or not hardly mattered, Drinian decided; the Old Man was confident, and knowing it stirred fresh vigour in his leaden limbs. Holding each other up against the gale, the two friends slipped and slid to the hatch and down, splashing through ankle-deep bilge water to the circular pump in the ship's bowel. "Take him up on the wager, Wat?"

"That wily old fox?" Setting his chest to the other bar, Wat snorted at the very thought. "May not control the flamin' weather, but 'e reads it like 'e does! Keep time with a shanty?"

"Aye." Though exertion shredded his fine baritone in a minute, Drinian stomped around the capstan steadily to the tempo of _Back to Barwell Bay_, barely aware of the passage of time. When at the end of the hour two more men tumbled down to relieve them, he was astonished to find his fingers flexing properly and his brain cleared of half its weary fog. "Storm's still raging, mind," he groused, head tipped back to let the ocean spray mingle with perspiration's sheen across his forehead. "Should have taken that wager, Captain!"

"Optimism is a wonderful failing for a sailor." Ram had slept less than any of them, yet looked lively as a spring lamb. "And look! Nor-east three points, there's a glimmer in the cloud I fancy may be the sun breaking through. Get to your hammock, Drinian, you've been on duty thirty hours by my count."

"Eight less than you, Sir, but thank you." His hand moved of its own volition to the salute. Before his aching head had struck its pillow, Drinian was sound asleep.

* * *

He woke to the sight of Galamaia through the yellowed glass of the porthole, aware before being fully awake that _Tiger_ bobbed serenely at anchor in a sheltered bay. His stomach rumbled angrily; his limbs throbbed a painful reminder of recent endeavour; and the stench of stale sweat hanging in the air made him gag.

The Captain made no allowance for any man's ailments, however, marching his youngest officer ashore to inspect the giant shipyard warehouses for good rope, stout chains and the seasoned timber necessary for repairs. "And no deceiving us with unwanted stocks, Master Airton," he snapped at the stout and wheedling quartermaster who dogged their every step, wringing his sweaty palms at talk of credit and cost "His Majesty's Fleet settles its debts promptly, what ever the practise of your own dismal squadron!"

"Captain, Sir, there's never been a more honest storemaster than me; wouldn't dream o' cheating a guest." Scuffing his cork soles noisily, Airton almost managed to kick a straggling tail end of rope behind two leaking barrels. "We've rope of a dozen thicknesses, and iron chains brought from the smithy just yesterday – not a speck o' rust on them, if you'd care to inspect for yourself, and very reasonably priced too – fifteen Ducals for ten yards"

"Fifteen? When the barge skipper we passed leaving paid a mere twelve?" Ram seemed to grow six inches in a dozen words; either that, Drinian acknowledged, compressing his lips into a contemptuous pout, or Master Airton had shrunk the same amount! "Mark this lesson, Drinian: pirates may slit a captain's throat for the contents of his purse, but they spare, at least, any pretence of being his friend while they're stealing! My officer will check each link. Give every one a solid tug, and if there's the smallest weakness…"

"I dare say there's a scrap metal merchant in the offing would take it from the Quartermaster for a small consideration, Sir." Folding his arms, he smirked down on the elder men, fascinated by the dribble of sweat beading Airton's gargantuan brow. "And as for the rope… I trust there's better to be had than those tangled rats tails hung on the back wall?"

"Best whipcord, sir, and very reasonable in price, too." Ram's foot began to tap, his metal boot toe clanging tinnily on the stone floor. "Gairton! Boy, fetch a coil of our best hemp for this young gentleman to inspect. In consideration of your circumstance, Captain – being damaged so far from home waters, and by such wicked weather as we've borne these last weeks – I _may_ be able to cut a bargain…"

"Save your wheedling for a greenhorn, Airton; you and I have done business before." Though his words were steely, Drinian detected a glimmer of mirth in the Old Man's brilliant eyes. "Twelve Ducals for the chain – _when_ my officer is satisfied of its quality – and six for a coil of narrow twine. You'll remain, Drinian; check every inch of the rope for signs o' mouse-bite. I'll send Marix and Wat with payment when you pass word all's as it should be."

"Aye, Captain." He settled himself on a stout cask marked SALT BEEF 54 PIECES, giving an experimental rock. "Fancy your butcher's a charlatan, Master Airton," he called to the storeman's retreating form. "If there's forty pieces in here, I should be_ very_ surprised!"

* * *

"Neatly done, Drin," Marix bawled above the clatter of knives on bent pewter platters as the Captain reached the end of his tale the next night. "Bet the thievin' old bugger fair wet 'isself!"

"I fancy his knees knocked," said Ram mildly, crooking a tar-stained finger to the pretty blonde weaving her way between outdoor tables, one hand outstretched to swat away the tipsy gropes of the tavern's customers. "Another tankard of ale, young lady, if you've time. When I offered to buy dinner, I'd forgotten what trenchermen my tars can be!"

"Should put yer 'and in the purse more of'n then, Cap'n, if you'll pardon the boldness, Sir." Wat piped up, not a whit abashed to spend a temperate evening ashore sharing a charred haunch of beef and potatoes with his superiors. "'s not the finest restaurant on the island, either."

"Our meat's good as aught you'll find in the Duke's own kitchen; and keep your mucky hands off my best apron you rogue – begging your pardon, Captain – young master." Their waitress dipped a curtsey, lashes batting. "A girl in my place can't be too careful with these lumberin' great brutes."

"Indeed, Ma'am; but what gives you the impression_ I_ may be different?" Cocking his head to peer up into her aquamarine eyes as she leaned to clear their table, Drinian flashed his most innocent smile. Soft colour started up her neck, pooling in the dimples that formed in her cheeks.

"Why, you've the voice and air of a gentleman, sir; and you've kept your hands away no matter where your eyes might stray." Deftly she swiped the palm Wat was directing to her bottom. "I'll order more ale, Captain, but I'll have my master bring it from the kitchen. A lady can only defend her honour so often in an evening."

"Allow me." With a smirk to his neighbour, Drinian sprang up to open the tavern door. "Have a _lady_ jeopardise her honour for a jug of ale! Shame on you, Wat!"

"'Ave to watch that one, Cap'n," the big sailor hollered over the jeers of their companions. "'S always the smooth 'uns what charm their doxies into livin' in the 'old, you mark my words!"

"Jealous of a boy for his manner with the wenches, Wat?" Chuckling, Ram rubbed his swollen stomach, picking a last blackened scrap from dinner's carcass as his booted feet dangled in the gutter. "What's the hue and cry in the square? Drinian, you're tallest, what can you see?"

"No pursuit, Sir." Ale sloshed from the filled jug over his hand, and Wat yelped, seizing the precious liquid in a possessive embrace.

"Don't know the value o' good liquor, that lad," he mewed, licking a drop from the spout. Ram ignored him.

"Archenlandish officer!" Above the general hullabaloo the runner's gravelled shout barely registered. "Archenlandish officer, I say! Cap'n Ram – where's Cap'n Ram?"

"Here!" The name's owner was still goggling, like the scruffy children skipping in the frantic sailor's wake, at his shredded tunic and mud-streaked hose. With scant regard for rank, Drinian seized Ram's wiry arm and heaved him to his feet. "Fancy the fellow's looking for you, Captain," he bawled.

The tumult died away. Wat dropped his trophy with a clang. "What ship?"

"_Anvard, _Sir." On his sleeve the shuddering intruder wore the gold button of a junior officer. "Sent by Cap'n Kolin to call you back to port. It's war, Sir!"

"What is?" The word caused a seismic shudder through the crowd; only Ram, it seemed to Drinian, was not rocked by it.

"The Terebinthians, Sir." The smallest tug was enough to bring the exhausted man sprawling onto Drinian's stool, allowing the Archenlanders to crowd protectively around. "Them bloody brigands they shelter, anyrate! Fell on the King's own ship at the edge of our waters, slaughtered Cap'n Par and half the crew... aye, stole the King's own gold an' silver dinner dishes, the villains, afore leavin' the _Golden Mist_ to drift onto a sandbar."

Icy spiders were crawling over his skin. Drinian bit deep into his bottom lip, tasting the copper tang of swirling blood. The messenger's voice thrummed in his ear, but the words were nonsense. War. Summoned home to prepare for battle. The King's own galleon wrecked on the shore.

_War._


	39. Chapter 38

_**THIRTY EIGHT**_

Along the coast makeshift defences had been thrown up: earth ramparts to shield isolated hamlets, chains cast across the cays and bays where an enemy vessel might put in for wood and water. At the mouth of the Winding Arrow, protecting the approaches to Barwell, giant siege towers had been raised, catapults fixed at their summits. "Hope the lookouts have the wit to know a friendly galleon from a pirate brig," Drinian muttered, shading his narrowed eyes for a better view. "And water, not strong spirits to drink! A boulder fired from _that_ height could easily smash our keel."

"Take the fools a month to aim straight, most likely." Topasio had to shout over the whirr of the grindstone, spinning a sharp edge to every blade on board. "Get below and shift the hammocks aft; we're to carry twenty soldiers an' all the clutter the retchin' scum'll need to the fore. Masthead lookout! Them buggers still in our wake?"

"Dropped back, Sir!" Dorix's clipped diction made him an ideal masthead scout; a relief to Drinian, who would otherwise have been stationed permanently aloft himself.

"Surely they'll not venture close in without landing spies first," he protested, blowing a stray dark curl back from his furrowed brow. "Mate! Signal from the starboard tower!"

"Man the 'alyards, you scurvy slackers, raise our identifyin' flag an' be smart about it!" Ugly colour mottled Topasio's thick neck and spurted up through his bristling beard. "Should've been standin' ready wi' that; remember for next time, Drin."

"Aye, Sir." The accusation was unfair; after all, he was not the senior officer on deck. Drinian bit hard into his tongue, using the trivial pain to divert his frustration. _There are lessons in every thing, Master Drinian_, his tutors had squealed; in this, perhaps, was a study of how a good officer ought not to abuse his rank!

His fit of pique was short-lived: he was too busy, urgently needed to take continual soundings as _Tiger_ tacked through the crowded harbour to her berth beside the town armoury. "Never seen the place so busy," Darin barked, swinging from the entryport ready to toss out their mooring ropes. "Coo! Look at the prancin' ninnies queuin' up for their new breastplates an' plumed helmets, Drin! Unless we're set to storm Port Terebinthia, this'll be a shipboard war. Ain't gettin' me into any steel swimmin' suit!"

"We have breastplates and pikes enough for the crew, Darin." Ram swept down the gangway in full uniform, the familiar practical wool and leather of his chosen seaborne attire packed away. "Drinian, take a party into town; we need buckets, mops and wooden platters for our passengers' use. Yes, _buckets_, lad: none of 'em will have ridden a raft down a quiet river before, they'll be spewing their guts before we're beyond the Roads! Marix, you'll march them down from the town square muster. No man that's not properly armed, remember, and no squealing silly wench with her hair cut off trying to get a place beside her bedfellow! I'll see to provisions once I have our orders from my Lord Admiral. Topasio, the ship is yours."

"Aye, Sir." Topasio sounded relieved. Scanning the confusion of shoving, shouting humanity on the quay, Drinian didn't blame him.

The fields beyond Barwell had been given over to military camps, and the small town itself felt crammed with strangers, all treading on a man's toes and stumbling down the wrong side-streets, shouting in a dozen dialects for advice and assistance. It took an hour to walk from quay to joiner's shop, and Drinian's party arrived bruised and shaken from their jostling. "Folks are in a fair panic, thinkin' the pirates is about to swim up the river," the cheerful hunchback informed them, brandishing his chisel like a rapier. "Lord Admiral's wife's gone runnin' to Anvard for _protection_ they say. Should put Milord Gurin in a happier temper! You'll be after a dozen large buckets 'n' baskets, masters? Give me your ship's name and I'll paint it on the sides. You boys! Them planks is my stock and trade, not weapons for a pair o' witless infants playin' soldiers! Little brats think they're fit for battle, and them not more than eight years old!"

"I should have done the same at their age." He had, frequently, and remembering brought a wry smile to Drinian's dry lips as he helped retrieve the abused timbers from two sheepish young thieves. "War seems more of an adventure when one is too young to fight it! No, we'll wait for our purchases, thank you. Crain, push through the crowd around the pie seller cawing on the corner – my treat."

"Won't say no, Drin." Deftly snatching the gold Five Coronet coin Drinian flipped from his pocket, the sailor barrelled away on his mission, returning with venison pasties, ham and cheese pies and piping hot sausages for everyone. "Be venturin' ashore with you more often, not that we're likely to be much in port for a while."

"Not so sure o' that, young feller." Sawdust spraying from his busy chisel, their host barely spluttered the words. "If they've their wits about 'em, the devils'll patrol close in to the river mouth. You'll not get your big ships out past them easily, you mark my words!"

* * *

Crain had dismissed the old man's words, but three whole months later, with the fleet stuck fast in port and the coastal villages in terror of the next Terebinthian raid, Drinian reflected on them gloomily as he hunkered down in _Tiger's _flimsy gig with a lantern cradled between his hands. A dozen pirate vessels, spies said, lurked between the river estuary and the archipelago of rocky islets shielding it from open sea. Three men pulled on oars wrapped with canvas to muffle their splash, and black cloaks covered every head. "Pathin' the watch towerth now," Wat muttered, deliberately lisping every _S_ to avoid any whistle of air through the gaps in his teeth. "Can you thee 'em, Drin?"

"Aye; hold her." A pair of squat brigs tacked clear of the entrance, but despite his telescope Drinian could detect no small boats closer in. Using the folds of his cloak as a shield, he unrolled Ram's best chart, crouched over the lantern with a finger tracing the channel of deeper water leading into the archipelago's heart. "Chancy, but I think it's possible," he breathed. "Ease us to the larboard bank; we need to watch 'em until dawn."

"Lucky uth!"

He could not argue as the night wore on and the fingers curled around his telescope's base numbed with bone-deep cold. He blew on them; pried them off, one by one and transferred the glass to his other hand, tucking the frozen one inside his cloak for warmth. Lulled by the chirrup of nocturnal creatures flitting through the reeds, his eyelids began to droop, lassitude combined with cold to deaden every nerve ending.

Something squawked. Drinian jerked upright, making the gig rock and his drowsy colleagues whimper. "Damn!"

"No thign o' the buggerth." Wat at least was doing his duty, wide-eyed and alert while his superior snoozed. Drinian bit his lip, too cross with himself and too irritated with the sailor's sublime immunity to tiredness to risk a word. "Don't theem to thend out patrolth."

"As the Captain thought." Cautious, he loosened the tight folds of mantle that swathed him. A touch of cold would keep him awake, and daybreak could not be too far away. "First sign o' the sky lightening…"

"Aye, Thir." The man was deliberately using as many _S_ sounds as he could, Drinian realised, helpless to stop a grin. Well, if it kept his mind active and his eye sharp, peering through the gloom toward the blockading ships, so much the better for them all!

* * *

Their orders had been to go ashore at Barwell and report to the Lord Admiral's house where Ram and his fellow captains awaited; simple enough, Drinian had assumed, until the gig squeezed between barques at the quay and he discovered a town in uproar.

Carts and packing cases stood outside every third door; women ran shrieking through the streets in their nightgowns, winning a flick of the ears from the line of patient mules idly swishing their tales while panniers were secured to their backs. Men shouted at each other, shoving and jostling, one dragging his donkey forward to barge another's out of the way. "Wha's goin' on, d'you reckon?" Wat rumbled, evading the charge of a terrified child with a nimbleness unexpected in such a big man. "Oi, you there! Wha's the confusion, masters?"

"You damned sailors should know; you're the drunken laggards let the pirates raze Lune's Forge to the ground overnight!" Staggering under the weight of his pack, Raxin the town peddler veered deliberately between the two astonished sailors, sending both sprawling. "Aye, you don't even know! Half a dozen men slain, the prettiest women carried off for the slave markets and a village left ablaze, and where was our blessed fleet? Cowerin' at bloomin' anchor, that's where!"

"What of the soldiers His Majesty ordered to patrol the coast?" The awful cold of midnight in the reed beds gripped him again. Drinian flexed his fingers, willing himself to stay calm and hear the angry man out. Raxin spat extravagantly.

"Dead drunk under tables, most likely, but the plain fact's this, lad: war wi' Terebinthia's a seaborne war, and our pettifoggin' fleet can't get out o' Barwell Roads! Now half the town's in confusion, folk fleein' for the countryside, and what's a chap to do that depends on their custom for his livin' eh? Lived in Barwell all my life, an' now forced to run because you idle fellows can't defend us against a flotilla o' cut-throats callin' themselves the Royal Fleet of a pestilential blasted island! I assume you're too ashamed of your damned uniform to wear it in the streets now?"

"We never wear uniform when there's action in the offing, Raxin." Drinian slid a hand back to grasp Wat's wrist, aware his friend's temper would not stand another insult. "And if the people of Barwell are thinking to fly inland, they're greater fools than I knew! With chains across the river mouth and siege towers defending the approaches, a leaking barrel couldn't reach the anchorage unseen, still less a band of pirates! The town constables should be taking these infernal panic-mongers in hand – aye, and into charge if they block the streets with their belongings. Hurry, Wat, the Lord Admiral's waiting on our report."

"'s your report, an' Master Gurin were one o the first to run fer Anvard, as you well know." Wat made sure to give the irate peddler a shove in passing. Drinian grimaced.

"Luckily for the Captain's sake! A man with so soggy a handshake's never going to make a General, on land _or_ sea – my uncle's opinion. Besides; Raxin's the biggest gossip this side o' the Narnian border, and it ought to be bruited about that action's imminent; raise spirits _and_ spare us from the assaults o' the populace."

"Let 'em try!" Though he kept a firm grip on his cutlass, Drinian was relieved to see his companion showing no inclination to drag it free of its scabbard however the frightened residents elbowed them. "Liverish, whimperin' halfwits! All we need's a cloudy night to slip out an' catch the blackguards from behind. War'll be over in a month, I'd wager me last Coronet on it."

"I know how successful your wagers tend to be, Wat." With a roll of the eyes, Drinian rapped on the doors of the Admiral's unimpressive residence, eager to be out of the crush of needless fright. "Best keep what's left of your pay in your pocket! Captain! We have our report, Sir."


	40. Chapter 39

_**THIRTY NINE**_

Too many of Ram's fellow officers had been determined to merit the unflattering opinions of the peddler, not daring to trust their ships to a perilous night voyage through narrow channels between viciously serrated islets even for the chance of surprising the enemy. Peering forward from his post, deafened by the rhythmic breathing of Dorix stationed as an auxiliary lookout on the other side of the prow, Drinian did not blame them.

Pitch black water hissed beneath the keel, churning up a creamy bow wave he was sure any alert pirate must detect. Every lantern, even that beside the wheel, had been doused, and every man wore dark clothing, bending double as he moved lest his outline break against the sky. Past the siege towers at the river's entrance, _Tiger_ crawled under minimal canvas, sailing as close as possible to the larboard bank. "See 'em, Drin?"

"Aye; no boats out, mind."

The single brig of Terebinthia's _Royal Fleet_ on guard had been anchored fore and aft clear of the northernmost hunk of uninhabited rock, and for that landmark Captain Ram was steering with a steady hand, his course through the archipelago charted and his officers sure of their tasks.

At least, Drinian amended, they had been in bright sunlight when first the Captain had laid out his audacious plan. What seemed straightforward after a good luncheon was an entirely different matter hours after supper, when one's stomach rumbled and even one's deliberately shallow breathing sounded loud as a thunderclap. He slid a fingertip along the knotted line coiled at his feet. He knew how to take a sounding; had done it as a five year old aboard Papa's little sailing smack. The mere presence of a pirate ship, lamplight pulsing across deck to blur her shape, did not change that.

"Damn, those rocks are close!" Dorix growled the thought of every man for'ard, matching Drinian's instinctive flinch as the black mass of the first island reared above the larboard rail. "Protects us from their lookouts, I suppose."

"Rather take my chances with a pirate than a sharp rock. And keep your voice down!"

Instantly he regretted the warning. Dorix fell silent, and the clammy cold of fear was released to fold around him once more.

At least, as the channel widened and _Tiger_ heeled hard to skirt another sheer cliff face, he was kept occupied, taking soundings and hissing a finding every minute to be conveyed the length of the ship. The clawing in his gut began to ease. A small dark blot among the black stains made by the islands, the galleon would be impossible for even the keenest watchman to identify, and beyond the archipelago lay open water where unsuspecting enemy craft could be ambushed at will.

"They're a long way from a friendly port," Ram had reminded his fellow captains. "With Galma closing its harbours under provision of its treaty with us, and two hundred leagues of ocean between our coast and Terebinthia. Attack their supply ships, that's the way to win this manner o' war."

The King's proclamation, Drinian recalled, had used almost identical language. He flipped out his line for the hundredth time, forcing himself to ignore the dull throb of protest in his arm. "Aslan's Mane!" he breathed. "If every man had the stomach o' Ram and Nain, this war would be won in a week!"

By daylight they were clear of the coast, the sail unfurled and every man loudly protesting he hadn't been afraid at all. Fluffy clouds scudded across a turquoise sky, gentle waves kissed _Tiger's_ sides, and there was not another ship to be seen. Idling on the main deck with his tanned face lifted to the caress of the breeze, Drinian felt as content as if he were on a courtly pleasure cruise. It was impossible to imagine there might be hostile vessels on the edge of such a perfect scene, and remaining on the high alert the Captain demanded felt like an affront. He could not do it.

Nor, as the days dripped by, could anyone else. Topasio lolled on watch; Marix was heard expelling the hacking caw he described as _singing_. The weather held fair, and they might have been the only ship at sea.

They put in at Galamaia for fresh water; cruised the island's south coast before tacking back westward. They even danced on deck under extravagant pink and gold sunsets. He had quite forgotten they were at war by the time, midway through the second week, Sarin howled down from the fighting top.

"Sail in sight, four points nor-east! Terebinthian by 'er rig!"

"All hands to battle stations! Archers, away aloft! Helmsman, bring us about." Ram straightened from his slouch against the taffrail, visibly fighting the urge to dash aloft with his telescope. "Masthead! Schooner or brig?"

"Brig, Sir! Fat ugly little bugger."

Drinian smothered a snort under Ram's reproachful frown. "Hysteria's no help in combat, lad," the Captain growled. "Archers! Men-at-arms! We'll carry her by boarding, they'll not expect a galleon hereabout!"

For the hundredth time, Drinian wished Ram would stop making the murderously difficult sound easy. His belly flexed with tension as the two vessels heeled onto a collision course, the sibilant scrape of blade against scabbard slicing through the dull thunder of blood pounding through his brain.

He _hated_ fighting.

* * *

The grim sensation did not fade, though the shabby little _Crossed Cudgel _was the first of a flow of Terebinthians to fall into _Tiger's_ claws. In her wake came the schooner _Arok_ (named, so Ram remarked as she burned, for one of Calormen's most notorious pirates); then _Mistress Nan_ and _Bloody Shore, _among others whose names were recorded in the ship's log then forgotten by most of the crew_. _"A harlot an' a battle scene," Crain grunted as they set fires running up tinder-dry rigging on their most recent catch, the hiss and crackle of racing flames sure to carry for leagues out over open sea. Drinian glanced up, awed by the sight as he leapt back from a pile of rags he had set blazing on deck. "Jus' what you'd expect o' them buggers! That'll do, Drin – back afore she catches properly!"

"Hardly fair, destroying the ship; she's not responsible for the actions of her crew." The few survivors were chained in a wooden box on the fo'c'sle, a snarling, malevolent cargo to carry to port. Pushing him ahead to the side rail and the safety of their waiting boat, Crain nodded.

"Aye, the lady's not to blame, but she carries the blackguards to their business. Coo! Mainmast'll be down in no time, see how it's caught! Bet they've not changed that rig in years!"

He stood on deck watching the little brig burn until dusk, banking down to a sullen orange glow against the grey of sea and sky. He could block his ears easily to the howls of abuse from their prisoners; caged and chained, they were objects of scorn where there had been fear during hand-to-hand warfare. He would be screaming too, Drinian considered, if it were _his_ ship reducing to a fine film of black ash skimming the top of the waves.

"How much longer do we stay out, Captain?" he asked, conscious of a stern presence at his shoulder, though the approach had been quite soundless. "The cage is full; we've been two months at sea. Word of us must have reached the blockade ships now!"

"I hope so." Ram too was staring at the dying ship with something akin to compassion in his tired eyes. "We need to draw 'em off our shores, Drinian; bring our bulk and men to bear in open sea. And as for the wild dogs in our custody, spare no pity for them! They're prisoners of war by dint o' the Terebinthian flag, to be housed and set free when a treaty's signed. Under their own bloody banners, we should have exercised our right as honest men to hang every mother's son by now!"

"Aye, Sir." The gong's clang announced the breaching of the nightly tot, and unusually Drinian found himself scurrying below to join his friends. Something about the sight of the burning ship unnerved him: though he had been helpless to turn away, a weight lifted from his shoulders in finding legitimate reason to leave deck. Papa had often told him fire, not a pirate fleet, was the sailor's greatest enemy.

He doubted the good citizens of Barwell would agree, but Lord Tirian's wisdom would always be good enough for his son.

* * *

Three days later, the first sail was sighted from the west; the schooner _Bloodsword_, all sail set, surging straight toward them. "Our activities have been noticed, gentlemen," Ram announced, rubbing his leathery palms. "Grapplers, stand by! This one won't shirk a fight, I think!"

Instantly the crew moved into an established routine: Wat and Darin, being the strongest aboard, raced to swing the heavy grappling chains; pikes, swords and cudgels were snatched from their racks; and everyone, seaman and solider, save the one at the wheel gathered at the galleon's waist. Drinian sucked in a deep breath, gripped his sword's enamelled hilt and bent his knees, ready for the brutal shock of hulls grinding. The speed with which two ships came together always caught him unawares. His teeth ground, and then the impact came.

"Tiger! Tiger! Tiger!" The rhythmic chant accompanied their charge into a wall of blasphemy and sharpened steel. Drinian jabbed forward with the point of his sword, quick and controlled in drawing back to launch a firmer blow to match Dorix's on his left. He barely heard the other man's exultant whoop as their victim crumpled at their feet.

There were more of them than he expected. Men streamed through open hatches, all bulging muscles and straggling hair, to throw themselves into the place of fallen comrades. Curving billhooks and rust-marked pikes threshed; Drinian dipped his too-lofty head, plunging through the steel forest in Marix's wake with sword jabbing left and right. His breath came fast; sweat stood cold on his furrowed brow. _Curse the filthy curs, how many more can there be?_

_Bloodsword_ lived up to her name, her timbers slippery and purpling with spilled gore: but fewer alien voices croaked her name above the incessant metallic clank of battle. From the corner of his eye Drinian spied a ferociously spiked implement swinging down toward his exposed forearm. With a yelp he hurled himself sideways, thrusting his blade upward. It carved his assailant's throat an instant before the spear's point sliced his sleeve.

He was conscious of a faint sting, but had no time to ponder; a whey-faced fellow with lank, mousy hair falling into his eyes charged straight for him, features contorted with otherworldly fury. Drinian rocked back onto his heels, measured the distance, and lunged for the gullet. Soft, yielding flesh engulfed the straight sword's length, and the pirate fell with mouth still gaping at his feet.

"Push 'em aft, men!" Ram's concise accent was the first he had identified clearly since boarding, and instinctively Drinian fought his way toward it, swatting the ribbon of white linen that fluttered from his sleeve. His fingers came away sticky, but the meaning failed to strike home. Gulping for breath, he reached the Captain's shoulder, joining the familiar chant with a rasping voice.

"Tiger! Tiger! Tiger!"

Something brushed his shoulder and a lusty cheer went up. "Her banner's down!" Marix bawled, grinding the blue and silver pennant with his heel. "She's ours, Cap'n!"

"Tigers, to me!" Ram had to repeat his deep bellow four times before the last man stopped fighting, silence crashing down over a scene of blood-spattered horror. Fifty bodies sprawled; some moving feebly, most petrified where they had fallen. Somebody whimpered.

"Shurrup!" Wat growled, prodding the offender with his cutlass. "Only two prisoners 'ere, Cap'n; reckon the rest've took their chances wi' the sharks."

"The poor beasts will be drunk for a week." Ram dug the point of his giant two-handed sword into deck, leaning on the hilt as casually as a countryman on his boundary fence. "Topasio, set her ablaze; Marix, gather our wounded. Drinian, go with them; that gash may not be deep, but it'll scar unless it's properly tended."

"Captain?" Puzzled, he followed the Captain's glance down his left arm. "Ow!"

Blood oozed from a straight slash down the soft flesh of his inner forearm. "Only felt like a scratch," he mused, giving the limb an experimental flex. "Damn!"

"Go with Sarin's party and have it bound." Ram cocked his silvery head. "The villain who caught you…"

"Lying on deck with a bloody necklace, Sir."

"Good lad." Ram clapped him on the back before turning his attention to the task at hand. "Mate – set the fires, then bring every man aboard. We turn for home tonight, my lads, and well have you earned the freedom o' Barwell when we get there!"

* * *

He slept poorly that night, disturbed as much by the pungent aroma of goose fat and mixed herbs as the stinging sensation down his carefully bandaged arm. "If it's stingin', Drin, it's healin'," Sarin had told him cheerfully before shooing him away and smearing the bloody limb of his next victim. The whole ship stank of poultices, and the Mate was not alone in loathing it.

Daybreak brought an excited hail from the masthead. "Sail in sight west-sou'west! Looks like one of ours!"

People stopped as if struck by one of the White Witch's spells from Caspian's old nursery tales. Disbelief bubbled with hope, a heady mix that made him quite forget the swarm of angry bees inside his bandages. "How can that be?"

"Deck there! Two sail – no, three! Looks like the _Diadem, _Cap'n; an' the schooner _King Lune_; aye, an' that's the old _Anvard_! They're all out, Sir!"

Exultation swept through Drinian and across the ship. Men cheered and capered, slapping each other on the back and spinning their neighbours around. "Drinian, run up our identification!" Ram shouted, quelling the chaos with a steely ship wide stare. "Having broken the enemy, I'd not care to be assaulted by my own side! Shipshape and lively there, lads! And signal the lead ship the instant she acknowledges us. They've news of home, and I'll wager a full month's pay on it being happy!"


	41. Chapter 40

Author's Note:Yes, I'm still here! Far from inspiring me to continue my epic, the film version of VDT managed the impossible - it actually put me off. However, I've just come across the next chapter among my files and decided - what the heck?

_**FORTY**_

Though their fellows had declared _Tiger's _men the heroes of the realm, Drinian was still amazed to find the whole wharf teeming with cheering, singing people on their tortuous crawl to their mooring. While Wat and Dorix leaned out over the landward side, he hung bashfully back, shyly waving where his companions halloed. "What did we do but our duty?" he wondered.

"Our duty, while others shirked or ran." Dorix dragged him forward to the rail, laughing at his younger friend's protests. "You've the handsomest face of us all, Drin, don't be hiding it behind great ugly brutes like Wat and Crain! Hi! There's raddled Nin and her troupe of harlots! Hoping for a good trade once we've the leisure the Old Man promised, I dare say!"

"Gurin's there too; and his lady." He knew the broad grin spreading was malicious, but Drinian didn't care. "Her ladyship's being jostled, and look! Nin's parading her wares close as she can to him!"

"If she don't scare 'im off the 'arbour wall, we're stuck wi' the lily-livered old dullard," Topasio growled, though his attention was so fixed on the residents of Nin's establishment Drinian doubted he had even spotted the Admiral. "An' hark to that! They've written a ballad about us, Mate o' the _Diadem_ fair choked tellin' me!"

Before anyone could stick finger to ear, he broke out into a ragged bray.

"_When our Tiger, she led the way,_

_O, the blackguards 'fore Barwell did pray,_

_In such fear of 'er claws,_

_They preferred a shark's jaws,_

_When old Tiger, she led the way!"_

"Sounds like one of Horstin's rhymes," Drinian sniffed. "Look alert! Gurin's coming aboard!"

"Grab a bucket from below, that ninny'd be seasick crossing a flat pond!" Grinning, Topasio sauntered to join his superior at the entryport. "Permission to dismiss the hands, Cap'n?"

Ram restrained them as briefly as Gurin's sonorous congratulations allowed, sending his company down the gangplank into a heaving, cheering melee that frightened Drinian twice as much as any piratical band. Shoulders hunched, he forced his way into the middle of a merry group of crew, trying not to flinch from the clammy breath and flying hands of excited townsfolk. Snatches of the chorus Topasio had sung clashed against each other amid the din, each one being cheered by the singers as they finished. Conscious of the glee of his friends Drinian tried to smile, ignoring the knot of revulsion that tightened in his guts.

A girl around his age barged through, bestowing kisses left and right; her mother tossed flowers, shrilly chanting the galleon's name. "Nice to be 'eroes instead o' damned debauched rogues for a change!" Crain hollered.

"Is it?"

"Put yer 'ead up an' smile for the pretty lasses; their fathers'll be throwin' rotten cabbages our way again soon enough."

Against his will, Drinian guffawed. "Remind me never to take shore leave with you!" he exclaimed, oblivious to the heads his clear, sharp accents turned. "I though Wat and Darin were the evil influences aboard!"

"Got to watch the quiet ones," Dorix opined, passing a buxom brunette through their cluster, her puckered lips landing she cared not where. Handing her on toward Berix, whose loose lips hung parted in readiness, Drinian rolled his eyes.

"How would you know?" he demanded, snatching the most succulent from a rain of white rosebuds to tuck into his jerkin. "Find your own favour, Dorix you lazy wretch! Seems there are plenty to be shared. Dinner in town tonight?"

* * *

Dinner in town became a nightly treat, with good tables being found at a moment's notice for _Tiger's_ delighted men. "Shan't hear o' taking money from the gentlemen that broke the villains' blockade!" cried the owner of the _Great Ram_ tavern on the south side of the market square, echoing the protest of his rival at the _Mariner's Rest_ the night before. "What? Charge the saviours o' the kingdom? 'Tis an honour to have such heroes at our tables!"

"B'ain't 'eroes!" The gruff bark from a corner table stilled the tavern's chatter. A petite waitress froze in her bend over the bar, wine still dribbling from the jug in her white-knuckled grip. "Cap'n's a madman an' the crew are rum-sodden sots, tha's what our Old Man says!"

"Does 'e, now?" Shaking off the restraining hand of Marix, Darin loomed up from his seat. "An' what liverish poltroon that never set foot on a pirate deck would your cap'n be?"

"Captain Clune o' the _Winding Arrow."_ The words were slurred and the speaker swayed as he stood to meet Darin's challenge. "A wise man that never risks 'is ship for a fool's errand."

"Nor serves 'is country in time o' need." The men of the _Winding Arrow_ – Drinian remembered her, bright as a pin and untarnished by barnacle or brine – rumbled ominously, but Darin was not the man to be deterred. Pushing the startled innkeeper aside, he rounded the table with Crain at his back, hands clenched. "Ever bloodied yer sword, traitor? Or d'you leave the fightin' to proper men?"

"Darin, enough." Marix gulped his ale, no less aware than his neighbour of the crackling hostility lancing across the half-lit room. "The fool's jealous we put to sea while he cowered in port. Sit down and eat."

"'Fraid of a fight, Boson?" jeered a second man, kicking over his stool in his eagerness to join the fray. "Who'd 've thought it, mates? The gallant _Tigers_ scared o' shadows in a miserable bar!"

"The finest inn in Barwell!" squeaked the proprietor, skipping between the combatants circling in the middle of the room. "Gentlemen, I beseech you!"

"Pox-ridden cur," Wat hurled his tankard away, rum splashing up the crumbling plaster wall like bandit blood on deck. "'fraid o' the scum o' the gutters? Wager your fists are as frail as your prissy cap'n's fingernails! Ever been to sea yet, in peace or war?"

A chair arced across the room, smashing through the grimy window behind the _Tiger's _men. "Can't even throw straight," Darin growled. One of the _Winding Arrow_ men launched from his chair, smashing into the big man's legs. With a feral yell Darin went down, landing a meaty blow against his assailant's temple.

Too fast for Drinian's sharp eye to catch, the verbal joust exploded into a free-for-all. From the far side of the room _Winding Arrow's _men swarmed forth, mottled and cursing. Wat vaulted the table to wade in at Darin's side, huge fists flying. Drinian ducked, alcoholic spray drenching his face from a flagon hurled through the melee.

"_Tigers_, enough!" Marix launched himself forward, yanking vainly at Dorix's brown jerkin. "For the love o' the Lion! Drin, give a hand!"

"Aye, Sir!" He dodged the first blow, charging with back bent through the threshing confusion of arms and booted feet. "Ouf!"

"Which one 'it you, Drin?" Crain bawled, breaking a chair leg over the skull of an opponent twice his height. Drinian swung around, his knuckles crunching into a bristled jaw.

"That one," he replied, giving his stinging hand a shake before plunging heedlessly to the defence of little Dorix, smallest of the _Tigers_, who was holding his own while lustily abusing the two strangers (not seamen by their clothes, he thought, just local ruffians ready for any fight) who sought to take advantage of the topman's small stature.

He might lack the bulk of most, but Drinian was quickly realising the advantage of agility in a scrum as he wove his way through a forest of thrashing fists and shattered table legs. Jabbing out with fist and foot, he found his way to Marix, making awed note of the man's colourful vocabulary. "Boson!" he yelled. "Were we not supposed to be pulling the ruffians apart?"

"Incoming starboard!" He swayed back, instinct bringing his balled fist up hard into the midriff of his assailant.

"Boson!" he tried again, willing himself to concentrate on anything but the hot rush of fury surging through his blood. "We're supposed to be stopping 'em!"

Popping-eyed, Marix gawped at him as if he were a stranger. For an awful instant Drinian thought his friend might lunge for his throat. Then he blinked, and the rabid ferocity was gone.

"Reckon we are, an' all," he growled. Drinian sagged with relief, feeling the red haze that had enveloped him subside, leaving his vision clear and a faint tingle of shame starting in his belly. He swung back to dodge an ill-aimed strike, yanking the offender roughly aside. "Enough o' this, Crain!" he hollered, giving the man as vehement a shake as he dared. "Town constables!"

The shabby pair who had targeted Dorix vaulted through the broken front window and ran. With Marix at his side, Drinian waded into the writhing knot of blaspheming sailors, targeting the familiar and shoving away the unknown while the unfortunate innkeeper wrung his hands, dived to rescue such shattered pieces of furniture as emerged from the scrum and squealed for order, mercy or the Lion's aid.

He had to settle for that of the portly town officials, the shrill whistles clamped between their lips more effective than any officer's yell in parting the blood-spattered scrimmage. Had they not been the _heroes of the Tiger,_ Drinian considered, his party might have ended the night in quarters more cramped even than their usual crowded, smelly space below deck.

* * *

It was as part of a chastened group that he faced the Captain across Ram's battered little cabin desk next morning. At least he was not visibly scarred, he thought; the bluish bruising left by his first opponent's knuckles safely covered by jerkin and shirt. Marix's lip was swollen; Darin and Crain sported mirror-image black eyes: Dorix nursed his bruised right hand; while the gap in Wat's grin would be doubled in size next time he chose to show it.

"I suppose," the Old Man drawled, hands loosely linked on his opened journal, "you have some explanation for the uproar you have caused? Marix?"

"'s not the Boson's fault, Cap'n." Darin's bloodshot eyes flickered; even he was nervous of the Captain's sternly controlled anger. Drinian felt better for realising that. "Him an' Drin tried to break up the brawlin' Sir; 'twas me what started it, gettin' riled by a scurvy whoreson what abused our ship."

"We was in drink, Cap'n," Wat added, as if the realisation had only now struck him. "An' so was they, likely as not. Not that it's an excuse, mind."

"Indeed it is not; though I'm glad to hear that my officers made _some_ attempt to quell the riot."

"Until an insolent cur caught me, Sir." Confession was contagious, Drinian mused, forcing himself to meet the Captain's chilly stare. Crain loosed a worried guffaw that rebounded off the bulkheads.

"Give the miserable dog a fair crack 'e did, Cap'n, afore wadin' in to give little Dorix a hand. Beg pardon, Sir."

"One o' their men abused you and the crew, Sir." Marix bit into his damaged lip. "The fellows wouldn't stand by an' hear it, and when Drinian and I jumped in to pull 'em apart…"

"You took a stray blow and the haze of battle descended. I see." Ram flattened his palms, absently stroking the worn desktop. "The town authorities demand punishment of the culprits; Captain Clune and myself have undertaken to prevent any more unseemly incidents between our crews. Marix – Drinian. What ever provocation, officers of the Fleet cannot brawl like common tars. You'll stand watches about for the next five days. The rest of you – the loss of your tot's a sterner punishment than the lash to such reprobates, and that you will endure. No shore leave until His Majesty's visit; extra duties; and no rum. If that fails to make upright citizens of you, I'll resign my damned commission! Dismissed."

"Aye, Captain." Hanging their heads, the offenders trudged in line through the door, pulled up short by his teasing adieu.

"Your loyalty to ship and company's commendable, but in the Lion's name, insist on _paying_ for your suppers next time!"


	42. Chapter 41

Wounds almost healed, they took their place among the general company to cheer the King's small party through Market Square and down to the Admiral's residence, falling into pairs at the procession's tail. Uniforms neatly pressed, hair trimmeed or tied back, their parts in a regular affray forgotten, Drinian and Wat whispered together as they walked, thrilled to feel solid earth beneath their feet once more. People threw flower petals; the sun shone with unseasonable heat; and a pace behind their father, Prince Corin and Princess Anelia managed to wave graciously without public bickering. Though Nain was grey in hair and face, strain and fatigue in every line of him, the impeccable behaviour of his progeny must, Drinian thought, give the harassed monarch some small relief.

In the Admiral's courtyard, Gurin and his pinched, prune-faced wife awaited at a table laden with red velvet purses, mute while the denizens of court and town took their places on neat rows of low stools. Straightening the coronet which had slipped sideways during the ride, Nain positioned himself before the table, mustering a benign smile in answer to the assembly's cheers.

"Captain Ram!" he exclaimed, throwing out both hands in a dramatic flourish Drinian thought jarringly uncharacteristic. "Step forward!"

Like a giant wave the ship's company seemed to heave and part, tossing up the little figure of the Captain as a pebble on the shore. Very solemnly, Ram paced between the rows of spectators to kneel before the King.

Arrayed in the royal turquoise and gold, Prince Corin stepped from his father's shadow, holding flat on his open palms a gilded broadsword. The King plucked it by the hilt, unable to prevent a faint softening (pride or relief, Drinian was uncertain which) at the smoothness with which his heir accomplished his task.

Nobody moved. With a second exaggerated sweeping motion, Nain brought the weapon up high, swooping down to feather the Captain's shoulders. "Arise, Sir Ram of Lion's Crest, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lily! Corin – the ribbon?"

"Oops!" Sheepishly grinning, Corin loped forward to thrust a gold-edged blue ribbon the length of a man's little finger into his father's outstretched palm, his sister gliding from her position between their hosts with a gilded pin to hold it in place on his tunic. "Thought I was doing so well," he mouthed toward the onlookers.

Wat sniggered. Drinian toed him smartly in the ankle. "Some compassion for the King!" he muttered.

"Aye, reckon 'e needs it." Darin leaned over his shoulder. Drinian shifted, giving the excited countryman a better view of his sovereign. "Looks older than 'e does on the coins!"

"Older than the last time I saw him." Despite the first panic, seven months of war had caused little suffering to the general populace to an outsider's eye. Food remained plentiful, assaults against the coast had been shocking but rare, and the ill-disciplined rabble now known as Terebinthia's Royal Fleet stood little chance against any professional ship's company it encountered. The merchants might grumble at the curtailment of trade with Galma, but the strains of conflict could hardly explain the ashy tinge to His Majesty's cheek.

"Been sickness at Court, my sister wrote," Dorix whispered. "Caught His Majesty amidships, and he's been eating less well than before; must be seen to set the example, apparently."

"A good maxim, but hardly needful." Ram had risen to his full limited height for the short mantle of the Order of the Royal Lily to be draped across his shoulders and fastened by the King's trembling hand. "The Galmians might be sober without our exports o' wine, but this war's starving nobody! What's next?"

"We're to fetch our bounty." Marix's sunken eyes gleamed, drawn repeatedly to the jangling bags on the central table. "Two b' two to receive payment from the King's own 'and! Stand smart, me lads!"

To cheers no less resounding than Sir Ram had received, they marched at the double to receive their bags of coin, passed from royal children to monarch and from King to reverent subjects. Drinian had never seen his rowdy associates so impeccably behaved.

Anelia passed his purse to her father, giving a grave dip of her glossy head. He was admiring her composure when the unfathomable change that had been bothering him from the moment he laid eyes on her struck home.

Her fingers were bare.

"My Lord of Etinsmere." Nain's light voice rang hoarse with overuse as he dropped the jingling bag into Drinian's extended palm. "A pleasure as always! Your wound heals well, I trust?"

"Yes, Your Majesty." He shot up from his discreet reverence to full height, goggling at the amused King. "It was barely a scratch."

"More than that, but naught, we read in Sir Ram's report, to that inflicted on the scoundrel that dealt it. Yourself and your shipmates do credit to_ two_ kingdoms."

"Small enough credit one gains, that sits on its hands in defiance of ancient obligation, Sire!"

"Your courage in battle for another King's crown reflects more glory on Narnia than the Lord Miraz's inactivity," With a pacific smile Nain pressed his hands, clamped tight around the royal bounty. "Your relations ask me to convey their regrets; naught less than your uncle's recent sickness would cause my Lady Westerwood to let pass so auspicious an occasion. Corin! Where is the parcel entrusted to us?"

"Um – here, Sir." Fumbling about in a large canvas sack, Corin emerged triumphant to wave a large box. Drinian's dark eyes widened.

"Marchpane?" he asked, just restraining the childish urge to snatch.

"Your aunt declares a _sweet tooth_ to be an Etinsmere inheritance." Nain chuckled at his instant assenting nod. "So; from your good friends at Anvard – sugared fruits enough to share with all your shipmates."

"Thank you, Sire." The faint hiss of indrawn breath at his back was Darin, greedily smacking his flabby lips. "On behalf of all the lower decks! My uncle amends well, I trust?"

The taut, pinched cast returned to the King's gaunt features. "Not so well as the physicians would like; and not so well as he might were he to forego his nightly tot! Still, he's well enough to send his commendations through me: and I am commanded by a lady to say, you are long overdue a visit to Westerwood."

"The next leave I have, Sire; give them my word on it."

"The word of Etinsmere is enough for any sensible man. Now, this shipmate shuffling beside you; will you give us his name? I take him to be an honest fellow."

"Wat, Your Majesty; and while I'll vouch for his honesty, I should not commit myself on any _other_ virtues – save courage."

"Two's more'n most folk'd credit me with, Your Majesty." Even Wat minded his tongue in royalty's presence. The King chortled.

"Your captain speaks well of you, Master Wat; and if you have the friendship of Drinian here, I'll wager you are a worthy fellow! Join your shipmates – and be kind enough _not_ to devour your gifts all at once, as my Lord Admiral and his lady have laid on as hearty a spread as I ever saw in the Banqueting Hall. Ah, you must be Darin and Sarin, the cousins of whom we hear such praise! Step forward, gentlemen, and receive your rewards! They have been honourably earned, by Sir Ram's account!"

* * *

They filed into the Admiral's great hall with its vaulted oak ceiling; courtiers on one side of the room, Drinian noted sourly, and seamen on the other. He noticed the Prince gesturing madly, and took half a step his way before good sense could haul him back. "Not here as a nobleman, Lion be thanked," he muttered, dipping behind Topasio's greater bulk. "Hi, Berix! Toss a roll starboard, will you?"

"Glad enough, Drin." Musicians began to flute from the balcony, and immaculate servants in green and gold tabards appeared in doorways to offer drinks and dainties left and right. "Sooner be spendin' my bounty on Fisherman's Wharf than mindin' my manners here," he added, ducking away from his hostess's line of sight. "'S all very well for a gentleman like you."

"Is it?" He could feel their eyes on him: Corin and Anelia, Lord Hastin and his damned mincing grandson Horstin, even the narrowed grey stare of the King himself. He didn't need to approach the fountain of wine at the dais to hear their whispered puzzlement.

Why did their noble friend loiter with common seamen who shuffled their feet and tore their bread with rough, rope-weathered hands? It was not only the Lady Admiral with her wrinkled cheeks and puckered mouth who turned away when a mariner passed by; even Barsin, the horse-keeper's grandson, brought a scented kerchief to his face when Lain blundered too near.

Berix's innocent words gave the knot in his belly another twist. Surreptitiously Drinian scanned the faces of his shipmates, picking out every sly glance that fell his way. _Perhaps I ought to stand between the two groups,_ he thought grimly, fighting the urge to clench his fists behind his rigid spine. _After all, I hardly seem to belong with either!_

Gradually the men relaxed, and the pompous aristocrats gathered around the King turned their supercilious attention to their neighbours. Drinian propped himself up against a tall granite column at the courtyard end of the hall, observing the two huddles with a jaundiced eye. The orchestra in the high gallery abandoned their stately airs for a jig; Wat and Dorix skipped a few rough steps, bringing guffaws from their fellows. And a bright copper head bobbed from the farther side of the room to join them.

"Corin!" Drinian breathed, warm pleasure flooding him at the sight of the Prince hopping an ungainly turn to the cheers of the crew. Loose mouth hanging open, big hands flapping, Nain's heir caught the blushing Lain by the arm and spun him, winning a slap on the back and a round of applause from his company. If most of the King's party frowned, Drinian noted, their master did not.

His heir's informality appeared to be Nain's own cue to descend, mingling with his awed subjects with a graciousness Drinian could not recall Caspian the Ninth ever displaying. Behind him, never more than a pace away, came the Princess in her dark grey damask gown, bare hands carefully clasped against any fumbling gallantry. "Your Lordship will admit, such men as these are seldom admitted to Anvard," she whispered.

"Anvard's loss," he countered, one hand hovering beneath her bent elbow; not touching, yet subtly guiding her through the melee to the buffet tables. "A drink?"

"No, thank you." His brows shot up at her arch formality, returning to their usual level in recognition of Dorix's sandy head bobbing at the edge of their vision. "Pray do not be deterred from your meal, good fellow, by Our presence," she continued, almost going cross-eyed in her determination to stare down her straight nose at the flustered sailor. Drinian's hand twitched.

"Thank you, Your Highness." Dorix managed not to stammer, making an impressive reverence. Anelia smirked.

"This is my shipmate Dorix, Highness," Drinian announced, loud enough to attract the King's attention. "I believe his sister is a member of your household: Dorisa."

"Indeed?" With visible reluctance she offered a rigid hand for a kiss.

"Aye, Ma'am; been your chief laundress these eight years past." Dorix's dark glance flickered from her face to Drinian's and back: as if he understood, Drinian thought, the unspoken tussle between them. Which was as well, since he barely understood it himself.

"Perhaps Your Highness might assure him of his sister's good health?" he suggested, the joints in his fingers cracking ominously as they laced behind his back. Anelia let fall a false and ingratiating chuckle.

"My dear Lord Drinian, I have no cause to know my servants' conditions," she drawled, and he was thankful for the precaution he had taken with his hands: had they been at his sides, he must surely have smacked the condescending smirk from her prettily curled lips. "The woman is an admirable servant, I am sure. To remain so long in Our service, she must be quite satisfactory."

"Very glad I am to hear it, Your Highness." Though he had paled, Dorix received the snub with better grace than Drinian could achieve, offering another excellent bow as he backed away. A hand thrust out to halt his escape; adorned with a large diamond ring and kissed by the ermine trim of a turquoise sleeve.

"Your mother was in service to Our late Queen, Master Dorix," King Nain observed, able to meet the stocky sailor's eye direct as his daughter had not dared. "And as faithful to her mistress as Madam Dorisa is to hers. The fidelity of such honest families is the greatest treasure of Anvard."

"Thank you, Sire." Glowing, Dorix backed away: but not before, Drinian noted sourly, he had cast Her Imperious Highness the contemptuous look her ill-manners deserved.

As if she guessed his thought, Anelia inched away from him with her arms folded tight across her chest. "Don't look at me as if I've grown a second head!" she exclaimed.

"If it were as sour as the present one, I should ask your father to have it cut off! You know Dorisa perfectly well - I saw you laughing with her last time I came to Anvard. Why dismiss her brother so grandly?"

Her pout was, he thought, not half as attractive as she believed. "We are _royal_, my Lord. We must keep a certain _distance_ between the common man and ourselves."

The tension that had twisted his nerves since entering the hall dissolved, leaving him feeling light-headed. "Then if Your Highness will excuse me, I'll return to my proper place."

"Drinian!" Her hand shot out to seize his wrist. Impatient, he shook her off.

"You are of the court!" she squealed.

"Not today." Nor ever, if _the court _condoned her patronising manners. "I'm summoned as a man of the _Tiger's_ crew; surely my presence pollutes the courtly air? Bid Your Highness good day."

Her sweet face crumpled but he turned defiantly away, almost running into a shamefaced Corin. "I'm sorry, Drinian," the Prince muttered. "She's in disgrace with Father you see: behaviour unbecoming of a Princess."

"Intolerable rudeness?" He made no effort to moderate his voice, barely restraining the urge to look back as the blow struck. Air whistled through the gap between Corin's front teeth.

"An _intrigue_ with a stable hand. All her jewels have been removed, and she's not permitted out without Father or I as chaperones. If she weren't trying to remind Father she's able to behave like a princess, she should never have snubbed your friend."

"She shan't win any favour for the Royal House insulting its better subjects." He clamped down on the glimmer of amusement the thought of _her_ condescending to a mere servant would otherwise have caused. "And you, Corin? No assignations with the chamber women?"

"Aslan's Mane, no!" The words emerged from a strangled giggle. Corin's pale blue eyes watered. "Upset Father? Gracious, I'd not dare!"

Drinian grinned. "Wager His Majesty appreciates that."

"I know." Ruefully smiling, the Prince pulled him out of the way of Gurin and Ram, marching with bowed heads straight for them and the courtyard door beyond. "Sometimes I think I should have been the one in petticoats; Anelia's so much more _bold_ than I! When do you sail again?"

"Two days' time; you heard the Terebinthians sent a gig against Lionwood?" Rash and ineffectual as it had been, the minor raid demanded a response. Exposure even for an evening to _proper society_, Drinian discovered, increased his martial spirits tenfold. "We expect to be out for a few weeks; then - pass word to Westerwood if you can - I promise I shall make that visit Aunt expects!"

* * *

He stumbled up the gangplank before day could more than kiss the farthest horizon, his eyelids crusty and the thrum of distant thunder reverberating inside his skull. "Mornin' Boson," he growled, nausea rising against the furry feel of his mouth. Marix guffawed.

Drinian flinched.

"Busy last night was it?" the older man asked, too brightly.

His shoulders lifted of their own accord. "Must have been," he agreed, giving his aching temples a rub. "I remember rolling down the main street with Wat, Dorix and three sisters all bawling _Back to Barwell Bay_ after midnight... are they aboard, by the way?"

"Stumbled up the gangway a few minutes ago lookin' even more disreputable than you." Under normal circumstances, no great surprise, Drinian acknowledged; but with his hair on end and his eyes barely open, he doubted he looked his courtly best. "Throw some water on your face, comb your hair and find some fresh clothes before reporting for duty, Drin. The lasses'll wait. A couple of weeks and we'll be back ashore; in't that so, Cap'n?"


	43. Chapter 42

Author's Note: This chapter is (I hope) GRIM. Bad things happen. I think it's the bleakest, most nasty thing I've ever written. Anyone who has read Drinian's re-telling of his Terebinthian experiences in my early fic "Scenes from a Homeward Journey" will have an idea of what the next few installments hold. I admit, though - I'm finding the next part difficult to get right.

**_FORTY-TWO_**

Even before his eyes could creak open on the fourth day out, Drinian knew something had changed. Sounds were stifled: even the monotonous cussing of Wat, struggling into chilly hose, was distorted. His clothes, hung from the bulkhead in readiness, were damp, and the very motion of keel through water felt oddly sluggish. Still lacing his brown leather jerkin, he ambled up to the poop hatch, unsurprised by the dank caress of a heavy fog against his cheek.

"There's coffee in the galley," the Old Man informed him without glancing up from the compass. "But mind your step! This infernal mist leaves a skin o' moisture on everything. Masthead! Any sign of the squadron?"

"None, Cap'n!" Berix's voice had the same strange quality Drinian had observed below deck, as if the very dampness of the air were slowing the sound. "Comin' down thicker if anything, Sir. Can barely see the for'ard lamp!"

"We lost sight of their signal lamps during the night," Lain explained as he hurried to the galley before the coffee pots could be emptied. "Then this damned cloud come down, and we've as much chance o' findin' 'em as we have of meetin' Aslan! Coo! Drink your coffee quickly, Drin, afore it can freeze. I'd swear it's cold enough!"

The mist had an unsettling effect on everyone it seemed, muting conversation and slowing one's movement as if the dank air were thick as treacle. Lanterns shone fore and aft with an otherworldly glow; the figures moving across deck were shapeless phantoms. Droplets of moisture formed in the hollows beneath his high cheekbones, seeping through his flesh and into the bone. Drinian was convinced he had never been colder.

Minutes slipped into hours. The grey curtain continued to enfold them. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had spoken.

"Deck there!" Berix's quavering shout made every shadow on deck shudder. "Summat loomin' off the port bow! Enemy ship! Cap'n, enemy ship!"

"Arm yourselves!" Ram hardly had time to bellow before the first arrows came lancing into the deck, sending men racing for what little cover they could find. "Drinian! Aft starboard! A second ship!"

"And a third!" A shapeless mass loomed behind the poop from the port side, spitting arrows and hellish shouts. Drinian wrenched his cutlass from its sheath, startled by the complete absence of fear to cloud his brain. Almost surrounded. Isolated. Only the soft thud of falling comrades, their groans thick in the cold air, to concentrate upon.

He snatched one of the heavy shields lying by the tiller, hefting it above his head for the metallic rain of arrow tips to patter over. On the balls of his feet he braced himself for the inevitable shock of hulls colliding.

The forward ship struck first, rocking _Tiger_ backward to grind against two black-painted brigs, shaking her to the base of her keel, sending half her company sprawling and the mainyard crashing down, crushing the unfortunate Lain despite the panicked yell of the Mate. "Repel boarders!" he heard Ram howl above the mocking screech of Terebinthian blasphemy raining with their arrows. "Every man stand his…."

"Captain!" Encouragement ended on a sickening gurgle. Dropping his guard, Drinian spun on his heel to find Ram slumped before the wheel, blood and foam dribbling from his gaping mouth and the shaft of a rough arrow, its feathers matted and grimy, protruding from his windpipe. "Mate!"

"Stand yer ground an' fight like 'e'd want, Drin!" Topasio had assessed the situation in a glance, stepping over his commander's corpse as he might a discarded roll of sail canvas. More gently as he passed the petrified youth, he added:

"At least it were quick; old bugger'd like that. To me _Tigers_! Keep the villains away from the wheel!"

Blurred shapes were swarming over the bulwarks emitting screams of blasphemy that struck the ear muffled by the enveloping fog. Pirates he was accustomed to, Drinian thought briefly, tossing aside his cumbersome shield now the infernal metal hailstorm had stopped. Not half as terrifying as these faceless, formless creatures barging through wet cloud with almost undetectable weapons whirling!

"Stand together, Tigers!" he heard Topasio holler. "Charge the swine for'ard! With me, men, for Ram's sake!"

Drinian was swept in the mass of clammy humanity, down the ladder with cutlass lashing, stumbling on a flabby shape that whimpered and clutched at his ankle. His sword arm burned with tension as it stabbed and slashed ahead, cutting a swathe through anything he could not barge from his path. The press grew thicker, the carpet of sobbing injured deeper the farther from the poop he strayed. And still there was no thought of self; no panic to claw through the innards.

Something wound around his foot. Roaring the ship's name he kicked it impatiently aside, spearing an irate glance down to a boot festooned with strands from a thick grey-brown plait.

_Marix_.

The Boson's bruised face was turned seaward, half the slackened jaw sliced clean away. Phlegm rose, a greasy coat to his tongue as fury eased the cramp in his arm and sent him tearing through the thickest part of the fray, lungs bursting with each cry of _"Tiger!"_ he expelled. The voices which answered were fainter; many were enfeebled, rising from about his knees. Yet if the meaning registered in the murky forest of heaving bodies, restricting his swing and chopping his defensive strokes, Drinian did not acknowledge it.

Perhaps, he decided much later, he dared not.

The first thing to lance clean through his battle-maddened brain since Topasio's rallying shout was the harsh command of an alien voice above him on the poop. "Cut their bloody 'alyards! Bring down the banner!"

He was fortunate the knot of Terebinthians around him stopped to peer aft. With a whoosh that was lost amid their triumphal roar, Archenland's arrow-torn banner quivered down from the masthead as if it were embarrassed, to be trampled by the invading horde. "Shall we kill 'em all, Master?" someone barked.

"They be prisoners o' war, you 'alf-witted drunkard." Around the few crew left standing, knots of leering conquerors formed, taking turns to press their faces – round and flattish, each more bristled or drink-mottled than the last – close, puffing hot, dank breath as they jeered. "Push 'em to the entryport, them that can walk. Archenlandish scum, shift yerselves!"

Someone shoved him hard in the lower back. Drinian lurched forward, keeping his head ducked from the blows aimed at it. He could hear Wat's familiar rumble, the clipped diction of Dorix and a low keening sound he rather thought was Berix, and he fought to focus on them through the threatening growl of _Tiger's_ new masters. As a descant came the shrill squeaks of the wounded, their breathing laboured as they tried to drag their bloodied bodies after their captive shipmates.

Careful to make no sudden movement, he thrust both hands deep into his jerkin pockets. Very delicately he eased his thumbnail beneath the broad gold band sitting snugly around his middle finger, stopping a gratified sigh as it slithered free. By wriggling his fingertip he widened a small tear in the fabric, pushing until the Etinsmere signet could drop freely into his coat's lining. He dared not glance at the hand as he withdrew it, painfully conscious of its nakedness with the glinting badge of his identity removed.

He spied Wat trying not to look at his fingers as they were shoved together at the entryport. "All right, Drin?" the older man hissed, the punch thrown by a loitering rogue all but bouncing back from his solid bicep.

His mouth was too dry for speech; and he barely knew what the answer should be. Uninjured was the best Drinian could allow himself to admit, aware of the roll of nausea in his stomach and the chill prickle of each nerve ending. He felt clammy; he was sure the deck was wavering beneath his feet.

_Is this what seasickness feels like? _he wondered.

The cacophony of pirate celebration had faded. The scream of a gull lost somewhere in the murk was deafening amid the subdued moans of wounded men whose blood he could see trickling into the seams between _Tiger's_ pristine planking. A pair of plum-coloured boots stomped into his line of sight an instant before slug-like fingers, stained yellow-brown by tobacco, dug themselves deep into his tight jaw.

"Well, me self-righteous hearties." The Terebinthian captain drawled, dragging his prisoner's head up. "Think yourselves lucky we're the Royal Fleet of Terebinthia. But for 'is Majesty King Tonlock's express command that blood not be _needlessly spilled_, no order of mine'd keep these good patriots from splitting your well-fed bellies. Bind 'em. lads!"

Drinian swallowed hard, forcing himself to hold the ruffian's challenging stare. One eye was dark, deepset and bloodshot. What the other had been like, he could not guess.

The ball had been torn out, leaving the empty socket to gape sightlessly at victims too stricken with shock to react. His stomach lurched queasily, but he refused to be broken.

Satisfaction warmed his frozen innards when the Terebinthian looked aside first, dissipating as the turn of his head brought the ghoulish socket right into his line of sight. Pinkish and puffy, it must be the remnant of a recent injury: one as likely obtained in a tavern brawl as with sword in hand if the purplish hue of the misshapen nose was any guide. The man gave him a violent backward shove into the pincer grasp of two guards who wrenched his shoulders, pinning his arms behind his back. "Struggle and we'll rip yer arms out their sockets, Archenlander!" one of them growled.

He swallowed the instinctive disclaimer with the cry that began to escape at the first cut of fishing wire through the tender flesh of his wrists. His captors pulled it tight, slicing with clinical precision until he could feel the ticklish trickle of blood dribbling thickly to slick his palms.

Unlike Wat or Crain he did not struggle or swear. With shoulders squared and head held high he silently dared his captors to do their worst, relishing the each tiny victory, as one after another faltered beneath his haughty demeanour. Dorix; Sarin; himself, Wat and Crain. Where in the Lion's name were the others?

"They're all secured, Master." A swarthy pixie of a man shoved past, and with his ankles bound even Drinian's innate balance was unequal to the challenge. He lurched like a landsman, clamping down the squawk of unfamiliar panic just in time. His fall stopped by a Terebinthian's careless grab, he missed the meaning of the man's next words. "Not wastin' our medicines on this rabble, then?"

He saw their leader's hand slash across his throat. A malicious grin spread over the little man's face. With a hiss, his dagger was out from its scabbard.

Bound hand and foot there was nothing he could do; not even to block the gruesome noise from his ears as _Tiger's_ conquerors strode the length and breadth of her decks, stooped with bare blades that dripped with gore as they moved methodically from one cowering victim to the next. Acid burning his throat, teeth smeared with the blood which flooded his bitten mouth, Drinian stared fixedly at a pulsing red pool spreading over the deck, sure the last piteous pleas of his friends were emanating from his own skull. Individual voices were too horrible to identify, but his recalcitrant ears must separate each one: Berix, sobbing for his mother; Lain; Darin, blaspheming to his last frail breath. The stain on the deck surged again.

He could not hear his captors laughing, congratulating each other on their filthy work. He was oblivious to the faint sway of movement as they carried him toward the side, and the thud with which he hit the deck of their vessel inflicted bruises to his buttocks and back he could never understand. Blood had permeated _Tiger's_ shattered core, trickling in narrow streams down her sides to dissolve in the ocean's depths. Decks he had heard throb with the raucous voices of a happy crew were silenced.

Marix. The Captain. Topasio, and Darin and Lain and Berix all gone. That two had fallen in battle he understood. It was natural, even admirable. But the rest… cold, relentless slaughter of a defeated foe was worthy only of a tyrant.

_Or a usurper._

"Set 'er alight, Master?" the dark man's high voice rang exultant over the deeper grumble of Wat's impotent fury. The one-eyed man, Archenlandish blood matting the ends of his jet-black hair, spat in his face.

"An' deny their compatriots fair warnin' of what happens to them that challenge us? You're as much a fool, Murlock, as the day you come aboard! Push off, my lads! Drop these scum safe in the tower an' we can get back out to finish a few more!"


End file.
